


Ineffably Yours

by SecondHandNews



Series: Ineffably Yours [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Best Friends, Demons, First Kiss, Friendship, Humour, Love, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Temptation, The Longest Slow Burn of All Slow Burns, aziraphale - Freeform, crowley - Freeform, good omens - Freeform, ineffable, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:10:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 48
Words: 112,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondHandNews/pseuds/SecondHandNews
Summary: *** Part Three Publishing Now ****** Part Two Complete 17/12/2019 ****** Part One Complete 17/8/2019 ***It had been six thousand years, give or take, Aziraphale had stopped keeping count, it didn’t seem to matter now. Six thousand years he had wandered the Earth and he had taken in almost every sight, every sound, every taste. He had seen humans’ greatest evils and witnessed their truest joys, and yet it was still this fallen angel who taught him more than any other. If he had learned two things in the past six millennia it was that nobody was ever truly fallen, and those with the whitest wings could conceal the blackest souls.*An angel and a demon have been playing a six thousand year long game of the words not said. It’s funny, though, the truths that saving the world can unveil. With heaven announcing its plans to make up for Armageddon and with hell closing in, what will be the cost of protecting what they’ve found in each other?





	1. Absolute Beginners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Six thousand years and you haven’t visited once since I moved, people would think you don’t even like me.”

**Saturday afternoon, August 2018. The day Armageddon failed.**

“Oh, my _shop_ ,” Aziraphale cried, one hand flying up to his forehead as his smile fell away. He looked at Crowley, bewildered.

“You can always stay at mine.” The demon shrugged, his voice non-committal. More sceptical beings might say it was suspiciously non-committal. With one hand lazily draped across the newly pristine steering wheel of the Bentley that was, decidedly, no longer on fire, he gauged the angel’s reaction from behind his dark glasses.

“Oh, Crowley, thank you.” Aziraphale gave a firm nod, smiling at his demonic counterpart.

A glance at the ignition and off they went, speeding back towards London, Beethoven’s ‘Under Pressure’ playing quietly in the background as they separately contemplated that afternoon’s events. It had been an unusual Saturday for a number of reasons, not least because the world had almost definitely, very nearly been decapitated. A solitary sinew had held it together in the form of an eleven year old boy, supported by a demon who wasn’t half as hellish as his frontman-cum-goth-detective stylings would suggest, and eternity’s only dancing angel who had, until an hour previously, temporarily shared the body of a rather gifted, _ahem_ , retired lady of the night.

***

“How long has it been, angel?” Crowley asked, turning back on the stairs to wag a finger between them.

“Six thousand years, give or take.”

“Six thousand years and you haven’t visited once since I moved, people would think you don’t even like me.”

“I _do_ ,” Aziraphale protested, picking up the pace to keep up with Crowley’s long, languid stride.

Hands buried in the pockets of his black jeans, Crowley ran a quick mental reccie of the state of the flat. Somewhat neglected due to the end of the world, the houseplants had been left to their own devices all week. No discipline for days, they’d be running amok, not literally of course, they didn’t have legs… Crowley shook his head a little, refocusing his thoughts. What did it matter anyway? Overflowing bins, a puddle of Ligur in the doorway, leaf spots where leaf spots had no business being. It was just an overnight stay of convenience for an… infernal enemy? Friend. Yes. Better. Less expectation of bloodshed at any given moment. He smiled to himself, an unspoken reminder that hell didn't have jurisdiction over his thoughts, just his actions.  _You can think the truth, even if you can't say it._   _Infernal enemy, acquaintance, friend, temptation. Evolution is a hell of a thing._

Hovering a hand over the lock (demon from the pits of hell, yes, but he still kept the door locked; this was London for crying out loud), Crowley twisted the rounded door knob and pushed the door open, sweeping his arm forward to usher the angel in ahead of him. He followed him inside, closing the door behind them and hovering nervously in the hallway, realising that he was waiting for the angel’s opinion, for no reason other than there was no other being whose opinion mattered.


	2. Something to Live for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can’t kill them like this, Crowley. Cursing them for who they love? I won’t let you.”

**August 1985. Soho, London.**

_**GAY PLAGUE SWEEPS LONDON** _   
_**DANGER OF THE AIDS TIME BOMB**_   
_**I’D SHOOT MY SON IF HE HAD AIDS, SAYS FATHER**_   
_**CONSPIRACY TO INFECT SOCIETY**_

Aziraphale hadn’t realised his jaw was clenched so tightly until pain bloomed under his right ear. He shook his head, fist scrunching the papers until the words were no longer legible. But they were screaming out from every newsagents and newspaper stand in the city, the country.

Plague.  
Danger.  
Time bomb.

The momentum had been building for weeks and today was the day the media dealt their trump card: fear. Fear sells, causes confusion, panic, with people seeking reassurance, and what do they trust more than the good old institution of the British media?

It was a balmy Saturday in August and Aziraphale was out of breath by the time he stood outside Crowley’s flat building, finger pressed firmly against the buzzer. He wished, not for the first time, that the demon could have the decency to live in a house with a door that could be duly hammered on in times of desperation. A finger pressed resolutely against an intercom didn’t have quite the same sense of menace.

Crackling. Static. Then Crowley’s lazy drawl, dripping through the intercom like golden honey. A shiver that began in his chest and ended up in the pit of his stomach ran through Aziraphale and he tutted at his body's betrayal at the sound of the demon's voice. He shook his head, reminding himself why he was standing outside Crowley's home with righteous anger in his veins.

“What do you want?”

“Let. Me. In.” Aziraphale bit each word out. The door latch sprang open before he finished the last word.

“Angel.” Crowley was sitting calmly on the sofa pouring rose-scented tea when Aziraphale slammed the door behind him, relishing the shaking of the doorframe, the pounding of blood through his body. Fury. That was the word.

“Demon.” The pet name didn't work the other way around, and this time it wasn’t supposed to. Aziraphale registered the half second of hurt on Crowley’s face. Well, good.

“Why are you here, Aziraphale? What do you need to have a go about this time? You never just drop round for tea, do you? Nice pot of tea and biccies, eh?”

“I have kept my distance, I have left you to your…work, I’ve seen the seeds of what you're doing, watched the weeds spiral up and up but now this.” He threw the fistful of papers at Crowley and paced up and down in front of the sofa as he watched the demon scan the crumpled pages. He stilled as he took in the headlines, his brow softening as two teeth chewed unconsciously at his lip.

Finally, he folded the papers in half and placed them neatly on the coffee table next to the abandoned pot of tea. He turned to look at Aziraphale, and when he spoke his voice was calm. “You think this is my doing?”

“Don’t insult me,” the angel spat. “This comes out of nowhere, it kills hundreds of thousands, the media gets to vilify them for...for what? For having the audacity to fall in love with the wrong person? Finally ran out of patience, did you?”

In a flash Crowley was on his feet. Two, three, four strides and he had Aziraphale backed against the door, forearm pressed to the angel’s throat. He leaned in good and close, and when he spoke his words were barely more than a low hiss against Aziraphale's lips.

“Six thousand years and I’m still just a snake to you when it comes down to it. Hell bent on what? Misery? You think this is what I am, after everything we've been through?”

Whether from the pressure against his neck or the anger in Crowley’s voice that was unmistakably tinged with sadness, Aziraphale’s voice softened. “You can’t kill them like this, Crowley. Cursing them for who they love? I won’t let you.”

“This isn’t one of mine.” They were so close Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s white blonde curls against his forehead. “When has true evil ever been my style?”

“Never,” the angel conceded eventually, one hand braced against Crowley’s wrist as he pushed him away. “I suppose it hasn’t. Striking the fear of…” He trailed off, turning the end of the sentence over in his mind and cutting himself short.

Inches from his face, Crowley’s lips quirked up just a fraction, though there was no humour in his smile.

“The fear of God.” He finished the angel’s sentence and let the full weight of the words hang in the air between them. “You should look a little closer to home before you start casting blame so easily.”

“You can’t think…”

“You know heaven better than I do these days, angel. Mysterious ways, and all that. Our God is a pissed off, vengeful, vindictive God, after all.”

“Crowley.” There was a warning in Aziraphale’s voice but the intention died before he finished speaking. Instead, he pushed past the demon and paced over to the coffee table, fingers linked behind his head. When he turned back, his face was aghast. “It can’t be.”

“I don’t know who it was,” Crowley admitted, sinking back down on the sofa and pouring two cups of tea. The liquid was darker than it should have been, left to infuse for too long, but the warm smell of rose was intoxicating. “But down there don’t make a habit of slaughtering people for who they love.”

“Up there.” Aziraphale’s words, when they came some time later, were muffled against the delicate black china as he paused to take a deep sip of tea. His voice was barely a breath, eyes trained firmly on the dark rug spread out beneath the coffee table. “There are _measures_ taken for falling in love with the wrong person.”

“We can make it better, in time. We get a lot done when we work together, us two.”

“Us,” Aziraphale said, thoughtfully. As if on instinct, he reached out one neatly manicured hand and laid it gently on top of Crowley’s. A heartbeat passed, then a second, and then he pulled it away, standing up and gesturing towards the door with a small cough. “I should…”

“Of course.” Crowley unfolded himself from the sofa and escorted the angel to the door. “You know, you can just drop by for tea next time. I've missed you.”

Suitably chastised, Aziraphale smiled guiltily at the words implied but, as always, unsaid. Once he was out in the hallway he turned back and there was something in his eyes that stayed with the demon long after the door had closed. “You’re not just a snake, you know that. Not to me.”


	3. Pennyroyal Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Love what you’ve done with the place. Urban jungle, I think they call it.”

******Saturday evening, August 2018. The evening of the day Armageddon failed.**

Aziraphale had visited many of Crowley’s residences throughout the years: the modest house in Pompeii that was nestled conveniently between a wine merchant and a bathhouse; the condo just a stone’s throw from Venice Beach; the Brixton flat in the 80s, but since Crowley had moved to the more central apartment in London a couple of years previously he hadn’t had a chance to drop by for tea and biscuits or the regular bickering that was their usual routine.

It was sparse, stylish and he’d wager the air was purer there than any other spot in London. The air, of course, was down to the houseplants, who were visibly quivering as Crowley approached them, Sainsbury’s mister in hand, ready for an inspection that was very overdue.

The demon's borderline toxic relationship with plants had always amused the angel, who had watched his interest in greenery become ever more potent over the years. How many of their work trips had included a diversion to a nearby botanical garden, he wondered? Still, even if plants weren’t his own passion he still admired them, and Crowley’s collection was certainly something to admire. Lush green palms and delicate orchids were dotted throughout the apartment, tumbling succulents appeared to drip from shelves and cacti proudly displayed ominous spines in the hundreds.

“Mmm…” A low growl rumbled from the demon’s throat as he stalked through the rows of plants, misting here and there, tutting loudly at a droopy bloom, adjusting drip feeders. He could have tinkered with the plants for hours and might have done just that, if Aziraphale hadn't spread his arms wide and beamed brightly.

“Love what you’ve done with the place. Urban jungle, I think they call it.”

“As long as they’re _behaving_.” He turned to glare at a small kentia palm that had dared to produce a yellow leaf, then paced back into the living room and gestured for Aziraphale to take a seat. “Tea?”

The angel smiled, perching on the edge of the sprawling L-shaped leather sofa. “Tea would be lovely.”

Crowley pottered in the kitchen brewing tea and blowing into two cups that he set neatly down on the black granite breakfast bar. He rummaged in the cupboards for anything resembling a biscuit and located a half-empty packet of Bourbons in a repurposed M&S shortbread tin in the shape of a Scottish terrier.

“Rose,” he said, nodding at the tea as he set the steaming pot down on the coffee table, along with the cups and biscuit tin. “Always reminds me of…”

“Morocco,” Aziraphale finished, a tight smile on his face.

“Goes terribly with Bourbons, of course, but desperate times.” Crowley pulled one crisp brown biscuit from the tin and sank back into the sofa’s soft cushions, exhaling as heavily as if the weight of the world had been on his shoulders, which, incidentally, it had been.

“So, that went rather well, all told.”

“Oh, absolutely, one hundred percent to plan.”

“The _outcome_ was what we planned, at least. It was just the, er, journey that was a little rocky.”

“If that doesn’t sum us up, eh, angel?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, murmuring his agreement through a deep sip of tea. He nibbled on a biscuit, looking around the cool living room for any hint of Crowley in the decor. Aside from the plants and the  _choice_ statue he could barely look in the direction of for fear of the inevitable ensuing dithering, there was very little in the apartment by way of personal touches. He thought he’d spotted a small bookcase tucked against the wall between the sofa and kitchen and made a mental note to scan the shelves later on, perhaps when the demon was asleep. It was a habit he’d picked up from humans and something Aziraphale rarely indulged in himself, preferring to recharge his proverbial batteries with a good book and even better wine, or cocoa, if the weather called for it.

“Do you think things will be…okay now?” Aziraphale asked, reaching forward to pour a second cup of tea. The heady, warm scent of rose brought snatches of memory swirling to the surface: sand dunes, tangled sheets, whispered words over dinner, voices hushed and fingers sticky with honey.

“Hard to say.” Crowley shrugged, inhaling a second biscuit in two big bites. “There’s always something, isn’t there?”

“Yes, well this was _the_ thing, wasn't it? What do you suppose we would be doing right now if things had happened as they were meant to?”

“Well, you would be up there reunited with your flaming sword and I’d be down there getting acquainted with some overblown axe or warhammer, or something equally befitting a demon.”

Aziraphale winced, though whether it was at the thought of the two of them facing off or of yet another reminder of his missing sword, Crowley was unsure.

“I wouldn’t have done it, you know. I wouldn't have hurt you. I would have…done admin.”

Tossing his glasses onto the coffee table, Crowley rested his right ankle across the opposite knee and studied Aziraphale’s face, finding a resolute determination there.

“You would have, angel. You would have or they’d have done to you what they did to me all those years ago.”

“Doesn’t seem very fair, does it? Follow authority without question or get cast out forever.”

Crowley cocked a dark eyebrow and pursed his lips. “You’re finally getting it, are you? Not as big on forgiveness as they like to pretend, your lot.”

“They’re not _my_ lot,” Aziraphale said, the words escaping his lips before he realised what he was saying. Funny, he thought, how often you don’t know how you truly feel until the words slip out unplanned. “Crowley, I know I’ve asked you this before but what happened to you? When you fell, I mean? You've never told me, even after all these years.”

Aziraphale knew he shouldn’t have asked, knew it was overstepping the few carefully-laid boundaries that remained between them but the question he’d asked so many times before hung in the air all the same. Deep down he knew Crowley wouldn’t answer, he never did, but it was worth a try. Emboldened by the day’s success, perhaps.

The demon let out a little sigh, threw one hand loosely in the air. “Oh, come on, angel, we’ve just saved the world, can’t we have a night off from all this? Can’t we just…drink too much wine, do something _fun_? When was the last time we had fun just for the sake of it?”

“Wine,” Aziraphale concurred, nodding sagely, taking the hint to drop the difficult questions. He looked at the demon, his eyes hopeful. “And then sushi?”

“And then sushi.”


	4. The Sound of Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale didn’t need to see the sharp planes of his face, the shock of red hair. He felt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW: 9/11

******September 2011. Ground Zero, New York.**

Even the most emotion-compromised mortals could sense the energy at Ground Zero. Grief, rage, despair, the faintest kernels of hope; they heaved together like ragged breaths, radiating for hundreds of metres in every direction, coming to an almost unbearable head around the perimeter of the memorial itself.

Crowley lurked behind the crowds, hands buried deep in his pockets and head hanging low, as if heavy with the weight of it all. The rushing of water did little to drown out the noise, a roar of untempered feeling that this shadowy figure stood and took the brunt of every year.

Penance, some might call it.

He inserted himself in a small gap in front of one of the stretches of obsidian black plaques, names carved in neat rows from top to bottom. There were so many of them, too many to comprehend.

So much senseless misery, he thought, running a pale hand across the names until he felt something. There, a few feet behind him, he turned to see a woman with shoulder-length black braids, a silver ring threaded on a chain that hung from her neck. Her eyes were swimming but he saw her swallow, determined, and approach. He stepped back, allowing her access to the name he knew she was searching for. This was her first visit, he sensed it. The ten year anniversary, an age and yet, simultaneously, barely a whisper.

She rested her hand, trembling, where Crowley had laid his just a moment before. She spread her palm across the cool stone and bent her head low, the other hand coming up to shield her eyes as she let the tears come.

He averted his gaze, his eyes drifting over the packed memorial, where the same scene was played out tens of times around the square. Children barely in double figures clutched worn stuffed animals, boyfriends pressed their lips to names they still dreamt of every night, mothers clutched their chests as tears streamed down their cheeks.

When a moment had passed he turned back to the woman in front of him, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. His touch lasted for less than a heartbeat, so slight she barely registered his presence. By the time she turned to take in the figure by her side he had already gone, winding through the crowd towards an elderly man leaning heavily against a walking frame as he held a handkerchief to his eyes.

***

Aziraphale looked down at his watch and sighed. Nobody else was coming. He had sent the memo around in plenty of time, marked as high importance. He thought at least a couple of token emissaries would have been sent. It was the ten year anniversary, after all.

He hadn’t visited before, hadn’t wanted to walk amongst the grief, to face it. It had happened on his watch, he sometimes thought, in the deepest dark of night. He had always wondered if there was something, anything, he could have done. If he could have reached people in time, helped turn their minds to peace, or… He cut himself off, there was nothing, he knew that.

How many lives had changed on that day, he wondered? 3000 lives snuffed out. How many brothers, aunts, grandparents, colleagues, best friends, secret lovers still thought of them? How many tens of thousands still grieved to that day, a decade later? In the scheme of modern evil, that senseless act ranked near the top of the list. The repercussions were still felt in every corner of the world, so many atrocities from both sides had been carried out since. How many acts of vengeance cited that day as their motivation? How many political campaigns had used it as leverage? How much hate had been spread because of it?

He wandered through the crowd, through the tears and the smiles and the stiff upper lips. He turned a corner and felt the rising pockets of hope nestled among the grief, a reminder of the sheer strength of human spirit, a testament to that which it can, and does, endure. _This is why_ , he thought to himself, feeling emotion rise in his throat, _this is why they are worth it_. How the others couldn’t see it, he would never understand. They said he had spent too much time on Earth; he had always thought they hadn’t spent enough.

As the golden glow of hope grew in the air, Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, his eyes trained on the lanky figure on the opposite side of the memorial. He was dressed all in black, his body turned away as he weaved his way through the crowd, but Aziraphale didn’t need to see the sharp planes of his face, the shock of red hair, he _felt_ him.

Breaking into a jog, which, admittedly, was something he wasn’t keen to do unless it was very important, Aziraphale darted out from the crowd and closed the gap between them. The demon didn’t notice him until Aziraphale was only twenty metres away. When he did he turned abruptly and strode off in the other direction, hands shoved purposely in his pockets as he stalked away from the angel, who called after him.

Crowley had almost made his way out of the square, ducking behind trees as he tried to shake off Aziraphale, who was pursuing him at much faster a pace than he was comfortable with. He thought he felt a stitch coming on, the sharp pain radiating out from his ribs reminding him that his vessel of flesh and blood needed exercise more strenuous than strolling to the corner shop for a paper each morning.

The angel found him leaning against a tree on the edge of Greenwich Street, one foot resting against the thick trunk and his arms folded across his slim chest.

“What?” he asked, his voice more tired than the angel had heard it in years.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked, leaning against the next door tree to catch his breath, inhaling deep lungfuls of air and willing his heart to stop pounding in his chest. “Did you get my memo? I didn’t think Gabriel would have sent it _down there_.”

Crowley barely moved but Aziraphale could feel his gaze trained on him, could sense those piercing eyes from behind the dark glasses he rarely removed in public.

“I come here every year, angel.” There was no malice in his voice, no prickly teasing.

When Aziraphale’s gaze made its way down to Crowley’s crossed arms, he could see the demon’s hands trembling. It was slight but it was there all the same. He took in the red bloom on the pale skin between the demon’s collarbones, the dark circles protruding from underneath his glasses.

“That…was you,” he murmured, as realisation spread over him. He gestured back at the crowds gathered around the memorial. “The hope, I felt it.”

Crowley looked down, shrugged roughly. “It’s nothing, not really. Not enough.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply but then the demon continued speaking and he fell silent, content to let his oldest friend, his only friend, say what he needed to.

“How could it ever be enough, angel? How do you begin to undo all the suffering this caused? A few hissed words in the right ear, that’s all they had to do. It spreads, hate, like rot. They wait around just long enough for it to take root and that’s their job done, thousands more souls claimed within a decade. And how many more after that? Collateral damage in this never-ending pissing contest between heaven and hell.”

It had been six thousand years, give or take, Aziraphale had stopped keeping count, it didn’t seem to matter now. Six thousand years he had wandered the Earth and he had taken in almost every sight, every sound, every taste. He had seen humans’ greatest evils and witnessed their truest joys, and yet it was still this fallen angel who taught him more than any other. If he had learned two things in the past six millennia it was that nobody was ever truly fallen, and those with the whitest wings could conceal the blackest souls.

“Let me share it,” Aziraphale said, his voice low as he reached out one hand.

“No.” Crowley shook his head. “No, this isn’t yours to carry.”

“I know. It’s ours.” Aziraphale took his hand, felt the demon’s cool skin under his own. He shuddered as the weight of it thundered through him, the confusion, anger, unending grief that Crowley had taken from them. He looked up at the demon, the quiet downward slope of his lips, the tired lines between his brows, and then down at their clasped hands, the suffering shared between them. Together.


	5. Drinking with the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good evening, sirs. Been a funny old day, hasn’t it? One minute you’re staring down Satan and the next it’s off to… Crowley, where are we off to?”

**Saturday night, August 2018. The night of the day Armageddon failed.**

“Sir. Sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut you off.”

The bewildered chef reached over the towering stack of empty china to lay another plate of kani nigiri in front of Aziraphale, who thanked him profusely, beamed happily and dove in, chopsticks at the ready. Realising he wasn’t going to get a response, the chef turned to Crowley and raised his hands in apology. “It’s just that we were supposed to close half an hour ago.”

Crowley looked around, taking in the empty restaurant, dimmed lights and kitchen staff quietly wiping tables down behind them. Squinting down at his watch, he read the time and recoiled. Had he really been watching Aziraphale inhale raw fish for three hours?

“I’ll get him home.” Crowley inclined his head towards the angel. “He’s had a big day.”

“Ah, my good man.” Aziraphale tore his attention away from the plate of crab for long enough to stab a finger at the menu. “A round of temaki next, I think.”

“Time to go, angel.” Crowley thumbed through a black leather wallet retrieved from the back pocket of his jeans and tucked a tidy stack of notes underneath the empty plates in front of them, overpaying for good measure. The food _had_ been exquisite, at least what he could tell from the dishes Aziraphale had insisted he _simply must taste_.

“But the temaki…” Aziraphale’s voice trailed off into an urgent plea as Crowley slipped a hand under his armpit and guided him to his feet. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere with a late night refreshment license.”

*** 

“Dickens,” Aziraphale murmured, head bent close to Crowley’s as they leaned in to continue their millennia-long game over the volume of the music. “Go.”

“Oh, down there, surely. Punishment for torturing a million school kids. How many twelve year olds stopped reading after plodding through bloody Dickens? Bosch, go.”

Aziraphale tapped his chin, face locked in thought as he weighed up the options. “They do say the, er, big cheese is partial to the Garden of Earthly Delights. Thinks it’s quirky.”

“Bosch. What a weirdo. Did you ever meet him?”

“I didn’t but I’ve heard plenty about what you two got up to. We _all_ have. Cautionary tales, something about never drinking with the devil.”

“You buggered that up a long time ago then.”

A brief glance down at the spread of empty glasses between them. “I suppose I did.”

“Another?” Crowley pushed the cocktail menu across the table, smiled to himself as he watched the angel flick furiously through the pages, mouthing the names of various beverages he had yet to try.

“I’ll have a…a bramble, that sounds refreshing. No, no that’s a daytime drink, isn't it? What about a margarita? Too much? Surprise me.”

One of the benefits of being an unholy demon from hell, not that being cursed for all eternity had many benefits, was the uncanny ability to pull focus with a mere thought. It had its uses, particularly when it came to attracting the barman's attention in a heaving hotspot in central London on a Saturday night.

Tray of drinks held high above his head, Crowley wound his way through the thick crowd and headed back to the tiny booth they’d nabbed in the corner. It was the sort of bar where people came to drink enough to enable them to make the bad decisions they were too scared to make while sober, where the music pounded just loud enough you had to lean in a little too close to make yourself heard, where dark corners lent themselves to clandestine moments, where anything could begin on a summer night on the day the world had failed to end.

Pausing for a moment on the corner of the dance floor, Crowley watched the angel as he fiddled with the empty glasses in front of him, lining them up in size order, then in the order they’d been drunk from. He seemed to like size order best, rearranging them for a final time and smiling contentedly as he took in the neat row. Simple pleasures, _tidy_ things, everything in its correct box, just as it should be. These were the things that made Aziraphale happiest, Crowley thought. But then, why did everything seem so easy when it was the two of them creating an unholy mess that went against, well, every unspoken rule in heaven and hell? That was the question, one that had been six millennia in the making.

“Drinks,” he announced, sliding the tray across the table and ducking back into the booth opposite Aziraphale, who eyed the drinks with palpable excitement. “Bramble, margarita, couple of surprises. To the world.”

“To the world.” Aziraphale picked up the margarita with a fond smile, knocking the glass against Crowley’s pastel pink Hemmingway daiquiri, which came complete with a cocktail umbrella. Naturally.

***

“Shut up, pansies!”

If Aziraphale hadn’t been halfway through showing Crowley the basic steps to a gavotte at just that moment, he would have taken an empty beer bottle to the head. As it was, timing was everything and the bottle sailed past them, smashing against a nearby lamp post.

“Pansies!” Aziraphale wailed, dissolving into laughter as he sprang back up and waved at the group of men staring at them from the pavement. “Good evening, sirs. Been a funny old day, hasn’t it? One minute you’re staring down Satan and the next it’s off to…Crowley, where are we off to?”

“Home,” the demon replied, voice thick with more alcoholic influence than the average human vessel should have been able to withstand. It was hard enough walking in a straight line as it was, without factoring in the dark glasses he wasn’t keen on removing while they were being watched. They’d been in enough trouble for one day. “You’re staying, right? You’re staying at mine.”

Hands cupped around their mouths for extra amplification, the men shouted various insults after them in a last ditch attempt to engage the two entities in a drunken brawl but Aziraphale was too focused on the noble art of gavotting down the Pall Mall central reservation to pay them any attention, and Crowley was too focused on staying upright to hear what anyone was saying.

“It’s a beautiful dance, my dear,” Aziraphale whisper-bellowed, slowing to let Crowley catch up. Looking decidedly worse for wear, the demon slung an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder and the two of them staggered on down the road, occasionally stopping to holler something about saving the world, to the confusion and amusement of passersby.


	6. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s always been dangerous,” Aziraphale said, his eyes trained on the ceiling. Folded across his stomach, his hands were trembling. “You’ve always been dangerous.”

**Saturday, August 2018. The early hours of the morning of the day after the world failed to end.**

“You should really let me teach you some time, it’s quite liberating. Dancing, I mean. I always say nothing makes you feel more alive than brisk choreography.”

“If I say yes will you talk about something other than dancing?” Crowley fumbled with his keys, gave up and hovered his hand over the lock until he heard the satisfying click as the door came unlatched.

Slinging his wallet and glasses onto the coffee table, the demon rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand and slumped back onto the sofa, legs splayed and head sinking back into the soft leather.

“Where’s my phone?” he mumbled, digging it out of his pocket and stabbing absent-mindedly at the screen, eyes narrowed in a vain attempt to bring the graphics into focus. “Twenty five minute wait? In London? Outrageous.”

Meanwhile, Aziraphale was behind him crashing around in the kitchen, making far too much noise for somebody who was only trying to fill two glasses with water.

“On the draining board,” Crowley called over his shoulder. Then, when he heard two cupboard doors slam in quick succession. “On the bloody draining board!”

“No need to shout, honestly.” Aziraphale bustled in, slopping water over the floor, the coffee table, Crowley’s shoes and his own hands. “There. Perfect.”

Crowley looked at the two glasses, now almost empty, then down at his shoes, which seemed to be wearing most of the water. “I’ve ordered a McDonald’s.”

“You have?” Aziraphale clasped his hands together in glee. “Did you know I’ve never eaten a McDonald’s? Not once. Lose the gut, Gabriel said.”

“Don't listen to him, angel. He’s always been a tosser.”

“No work talk. Tell me what you ordered.” He flopped down next to Crowley, legs swinging up with the force of his landing. “Chips? Please say chips.”

“So many chips. Too many, actually,” Crowley slurred, glaring at his phone as the expected delivery time shifted a further five minutes into the future. “My own fault,” he muttered to himself. “Shouldn’t have been so petty.”

“Petty? You?” Aziraphale looked at him in faux-disbelief. “Mischief backfiring again?”

“Deliveroo shafted me one too many times. Smug bastards. Thought I’d give Uber Eats a leg up on the competition, exclusive deal and all that. No one likes a McDonald’s more than a pissed up Londoner. But, yes, mischief backfiring again. Come on, I’ll show you around while we wait.”

He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, hauled him to his feet with more force than was strictly necessary, and led him over to a wide shelf that was groaning under the weight of the plants that were crammed on every available inch of space.

“This one’s Freddie,” he explained, running a finger across a bright, waxy leaf belonging to a sprawling anthurium. “No leaf spots, you see, be more like Freddie.” He jabbed a finger pointedly at a small tillandsia that was sporting not one but two crispy brown leaves that Crowley plucked with a growl.

“Verdant.” Aziraphale nodded politely as the tour continued with the orchids, the succulents and, finally, the ferns.

While Crowley babbled animatedly about each specimen, recalling species, place of purchase and past misdemeanours with ease, Aziraphale watched him. The way his mouth moved, the brightness of his eyes, _those_ eyes, the jut of his collarbones peeking out from the black t-shirt he wore, the angel noticed every tiny motion. He could listen to him talk forever, and maybe he would. He felt like this Crowley was a secret only he was trusted with. To the rest of the world, and beyond it, he was sullen, unpredictable, cold, but the Crowley that Aziraphale knew, the one he liked most of all, was the excitable, mile a minute, smile-brighter-than-the-sun Crowley. His Crowley. The Crowley he had been  _before_ , perhaps.

Finally, the plant tour came to an end and Crowley nudged the bedroom door open, ushering the angel inside. Aziraphale rarely partook in the practice of sleep but he knew the human bedroom was a person’s most private space. It felt like another boundary was crossed as he stepped over the threshold.

The bed was neatly made, black duvet tucked smoothly under the twin stacks of pillows, one with the slightest indentation that Aziraphale would wager matched the back of Crowley’s head. A black T-shirt lay discarded to one side of the bed and a small dark candle sat on top of a glass coaster on the bedside table on the opposite side of the room. On the bedside table closest to them was a silver alarm clock, a mess of charging cables, and a bright green palm with neatly fanning leaves.

“This one doesn’t stay with the others then?” Aziraphale asked, head inclined towards the plant.

“Special, that one.” Crowley smiled, sitting down on the edge of the bed and gently nudging the plant pot. “He’s been with me for years. First plant I got when I moved here. Needed something to help it feel like home.”

“He’s very sweet.” Aziraphale sat down next to him, picking up the demon’s habit of assigning gender to all plants, apropos of absolutely nothing. “Does he have a name?”

Crowley looked down, lips curving into a smile that felt like freefall, before he looked back at Aziraphale. “I usually just call him Angel.”

“Oh...” Aziraphale felt his voice catch, an unexpected swell of emotion blooming in his chest. “Home?”

“Doesn’t always have to be a place, angel.”

A beat passed, then another, and then the angel felt a surge of courage he hadn’t felt since, well, earlier that afternoon, although what he was about to do felt like an even bigger risk than facing off against the devil himself. He reached out for Crowley’s hand, fingertips grazing the demon’s open palm. _How long has it been?_

_Bzzzt._

As if the sound was a bullet, Aziraphale sprang back, pulling his hand away and tucking it under one crossed knee as if the almost-incident has never happened. Crowley jumped up, hissing as he stalked out of the room towards the intercom. “Bloody Uber Eats.”

*******

“Give it to me, angel, stop being a tease. Why are you dangling it, for Pete’s sake?”

“I always wondered who Pete was.”

“The task at hand, please.”

“Well if you weren’t so _greedy._ All right, all right, open wide.”

Aziraphale deposited a lukewarm, floppy, decidedly-past-its-best McDonald’s fry into Crowley’s mouth and then lay back down on the sofa, spread-eagled across one corner, within convenient grabbing distance of the crumpled brown bag of McDonald’s finest offerings.

“They really are the best, even when they’re shit. More.”

Crowley held out his hand and Aziraphale dutifully handed him a cardboard carton of chips that was only half finished. The two were laying head to head, passing food back and forth and talking the exact kind of deep rubbish that seemed terribly important and worthy at three in the morning.

“I’m just saying, maybe the shop burning down was a sign, maybe it's time for you to go digital.”

“ _Digital_?” Aziraphale hissed, as if he could barely stand for the word to be in his mouth. “How could you even _suggest_ that to me?”

“Got to get with the times, I’m afraid, that’s how we’ve survived up here this long. Imagine if I was still slithering around wittering on about apples.”

“We’ve survived down here for this long because we stopped being _you and I_ a long time ago and started being _we_.”

Crowley looked across at him, raised an eyebrow at the angel's uncharacteristic boldness. _In vino veritas_ , he thought to himself. “That too. Nugget?”

“Splendid, thank you.”

As Aziraphale munched on a chicken nugget he pondered how differently that day could have ended if the Great Plan had been executed as it should have. War had never been his ballgame, not when books and sushi and early morning walks existed. “Crowley, what do you think would have happened, if it  _had_ happened, I mean?”

“Not sure I catch your drift, angel.”

“We should be at war right now.”

“We are, with sobriety and healthy cholesterol levels.”

“You know what I mean. What would have happened to us?”

“You asked me that earlier.” The demon sighed, waved a chip in front of the angel's face in an attempt to distract him.

“If it came down to it, though, to me and you, what would really happen?”

“Aziraphale,” he said softly, gently nudging the angel’s head with his own. “Let’s not do this tonight, please. What happened today, it’s going to make things more dangerous. With us, I mean.”

“It’s always been dangerous,” Aziraphale said, his eyes trained on the ceiling as a humourless laugh escaped his lips. Folded across his stomach, his hands were trembling. “You’ve always been dangerous.” 

Crowley scoffed, though the words stung. “Come on, angel. You can’t fear me, not after everything.”

“I don’t fear you, I said you’re dangerous.”

“How am I, an angel cast out of heaven, a demon probably about to be cast out of hell, dangerous to anybody any more?”

Aziraphale hesitated, the stomach churning feeling a human might experience when dangling over a precipice rushing through him. He thought about that day, what they had done, what it meant. He thought about the thousands of days that had led them there, about the demon who had led him into temptation. He thought about that night in Morocco so many years ago, of turning away, of the look on Crowley’s face.

“Because I would follow you anywhere; to the ends of the Earth, beyond it, straight into the pits of hell, if you asked me to.”


	7. Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hangover was something of a rebirth, Crowley had always thought. Blank stretches of lost memories from the night before always lent themselves well to new beginnings.

******August 2018. The morning after Armageddon failed. Crowley's Flat, London.**

Crowley woke slowly, halfway between a dream and reality, to find Aziraphale’s hair brushing against his forehead as the angel slept on. Careful not to disturb him, Crowley disentangled himself and padded away from the sofa into the bathroom, where he stared into the mirror until his eyes caught up with his brain and his bleary reflection came into focus.

A cold shower and a hot coffee later and, well, he still felt dreadful but this wasn’t the first time he’d woken up without remembering to rid himself of alcohol the night before. What he needed was fresh air and food.

He hovered in the living room, looking disdainfully at the mess they’d left strewn across the coffee table the night before. A patch of grease glistened from the underside of the McDonald’s bag, a couple of empty wine bottles stood like sentries precariously close to the edge of the table, a stray chip was mashed into the rug, and an angel was asleep on his sofa. Crowley took a step towards him, felt something tug at the corners of his mouth as he watched Aziraphale’s chest rise and fall with sleep, one arm dangling towards the floor, mouth ever so slightly agape. Ducking into the bedroom, he emerged with the duvet slung over his shoulder and gently draped it over the sleeping angel before he quietly slipped out of the flat.

***

A hangover was something of a rebirth, Crowley had always thought. Blank stretches of lost memory from the night before always lent themselves well to new beginnings. If you couldn’t remember what you had done then you couldn’t remember what you needed to regret; the perfect loophole for a demon who was partial to the odd blackout when the situation called for it.

What he did remember, muddled somewhere between cantering down Pall Mall and the two of them leaning out of his kitchen window chugging wine and wailing _We Are the Champions,_ was the feeling of Aziraphale’s temple pressed against his, voice low as he spoke words into the night that had been left unsaid for so many long years.

***

“Where have you _been_?” Aziraphale looked up from the sofa, where he was still cocooned in the duvet, panic visibly etched between his brows. “Something’s happened, you _poisoned_ me.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Aziraphale, it’s called a hangover.” Crowley sat down on the edge of the sofa and pulled a small white box out of the canvas bag hooked over his arm. “Bought you something.”

Wincing, the angel rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows, picking up the box and examining it from all angles. “More demonic trickery, I presume?”

“Just open it.” Crowley’s lips were set in a grim line that was only half to do with the nausea coursing through his body. He watched Aziraphale fiddle with the plastic packaging and promptly give up, drop the box onto the sofa and clutch his head with both hands. “Look, if you don’t want it I’ll just return it.”

Snatching the box closer, Aziraphale carefully eased himself up until he was sitting, duvet wrapped around his neck like a tent. “No, no, no, I didn’t say that. Calm down, dear.”

By the time Crowley had ferried the rest of the shopping to the kitchen and emerged with two plates of buttery scrambled eggs on toast, Aziraphale was cross-legged on the sofa in his duvet tent, the phone clasped in one hand as he studied the back of it as if it was the most mysterious of ancient texts.

“Bit on the nose, isn’t it? An _Apple_ , from a _demon_. I don’t know about this, Crowley. I’ve seen this pan out before, lost my flaming sword, if you recall.”

“Come on, angel, just think, you’ve got ebooks to discover. All the stories ever told right there in the palm of your hand. Tempting, isn’t it?” He spoke the words lightly, as if he hadn’t spent the walk home from the shop considering the perfect carrot to dangle in front of a technologically-averse bookseller who still sourced the majority of his literary collection from estate auctions.

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment, his gaze flicking between the box and Crowley’s eyes, which were narrowed ever so slightly, just like they had been in the Garden six thousand years ago. “It is…tempting.”

“Sushi delivered to your door at the press of a button, imagine that.”

“Digital…” the angel mused quietly, turning the phone around to look at his reflection in the black screen, recoiling slightly as he caught sight of red rimmed eyes and chapped lips. “Oh, oh that’s not good at all.”

***

Aziraphale lay his knife and fork side by side on the empty plate, nestled back into the sofa cushions with one hand wrapped around a warm mug of tea and sighed contentedly. “That was just the ticket.”

“Mmm,” Crowley agreed through a mouthful of eggs. “Perfect hangover cure, something to do with amino acids, read it somewhere.”

They fell into companionable silence, knees bent and feet resting against the edge of the coffee table. Aziraphale drank his tea and tried not to think about the mess he was going to have to navigate to get his shop back in order. It would take weeks. He would have to book into a hotel. There’d be so much admin.

“So, what comes next?” he asked, eyes flitting across to Crowley from over the rim of his mug, held close to his face as he inhaled the earthy, perfumed scent of tea.

The demon shrugged, folding slender arms across his chest. “Beats me, never circumvented Armageddon before. We should lay low for a bit until the dust settles, probably not wise to risk being spotted out and about together.”

“You’re right, I suppose.”

“It’s only for a while, angel. We'll find a way around it, hence the phone.” Crowley picked up the device and slid it back into its box. “Camera as well, two of them. You ought to try a selfie, one of my most insidiously damning creations, if I do say so myself.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, going through the performance of looking down on such things as demonic handiwork. It didn’t much matter now but, well, keeping up appearances and all that. “Hmm, well, thank you. It’s very…”

“Oh, leave it out.” Crowley rolled his eyes, pushing himself up off the sofa and stalking into the bedroom in search of his keys. He emerged empty-handed and finally found them underneath a McNugget box on the coffee table.

“Well, it is. Kind of you, I mean.”

Sliding dark glasses up the bridge of his nose, he twirled the keys to the Bentley around one finger of his other hand. “Isn’t it about time I got you home? Too much good feeling in the air with you here.”


	8. Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley. The one constant in his life, like a shadow tip-toeing next to him throughout eternity, only with better cheekbones and narrower hips and those pointed canines that looked both treacherous and enticing when you got close enough and… Aziraphale shook his head, that wasn’t helping at all.

******August 2018. A.Z. Fell and Co., London.**

As they rounded the bustling Soho street, Aziraphale let out an airy gasp of pure disbelief and Crowley took in the sight he’d been hoping to see all day: the bookshop, standing elegantly on the corner of Greek Street as if it hadn’t burned to the ground forty eight hours previously.

Aziraphale turned to him, eyes lit up with delight, and laughed joyfully as they came to a stop right outside. “Adam Young, I don’t believe it.”

“The very best antichrist there ever was.” Crowley looked up at the sandstone columns that bookended the doors to the shop, one eyebrow cocked as he wondered what other surprises Adam had left for them. “Go on, go and enjoy it. Don’t forget to drink enough water; two day hangover and you’ll be wishing for Armageddon.”

Hesitating with one foot on the pavement and one in the Bentley, Aziraphale turned back to Crowley, canvas bag containing half a loaf of bread and the phone in one hand and the only copy of his most precious book in the other. “Why does it feel as if this is the end of something?”

“It’s the end of _something_ , angel, but not everything, you have my word. If a demon’s word means anything.”

Aziraphale looked back at him and smiled, but there was a sadness there, a hint of imagining the road not taken. “You’re not a demon, Crowley, you just hung around with the wrong people.”

***

Aziraphale wandered through the shop, everything back in its correct place, stacks of battered books arranged just so, the heavenly scent of well-thumbed paper greeting him like an old friend. He ran a hand over a shelf of first edition Thomas Hardys and felt the crest and trough of books that had never quite adhered to uniform sizing, much to his frustration.

The back room was much as he had left it on the day he was inconveniently discorporated, the only notable difference was the missing copy of The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, which had been rescued and returned by Crowley and was now nestled safely under his arm. Even a half drunk cup of cocoa remained on the cluttered old desk he liked to sit at to pore through new acquisitions late into the night.

Tossing the cocoa into the sink in the small kitchen upstairs, he placed the cup on the side and leaned back against the cupboards, wondering why on Earth he wasn’t feeling happier. Armageddon had been averted and the shop was restored to its former glory, so why did he feel so...lost? No, not lost. Empty. Utterly devoid of purpose.

Low level melancholy wasn’t an angel’s natural state and it sat uncomfortably within Aziraphale, like a splinter buried in the soft pad of his thumb. He felt it there, in the background, while he busied himself with toast and tea and sweeping the shop floor but, on occasion, if he stopped with mindless busywork, it would flare up and threaten to take him over completely.

“There. Lovely.” He gazed admiringly at the gleaming skirting board as he rinsed the cleaning cloth in the sink. He could have attended to the chores with nothing but a simple thought but keeping himself occupied was a far more attractive idea.

By the time the summer daylight began to fade, the shop looked neater than it had in decades and Aziraphale was running out of minutiae to pretend were more important than sitting down and engaging with his thoughts. He’d even swept behind the bin and dusted the lampshades but, as the heavy hands of the wooden pendulum clock in the back room of the shop struck midnight with an audible flourish, Aziraphale found himself leaning back in his favourite chair and fretting. Frantically.

He enjoyed order, even if it seemed chaotic to the outside world, as long as _he_ knew the plan then he was happy. He thrived on rules, structure, knowing what came next. For the past eleven years, and the six thousand before that, life on Earth had been relatively simple. Outwardly, at least. It hadn’t been without its hiccups but generally it followed a pattern of receiving orders, carrying them out (or not, if Crowley had lost the most recent coin toss), filing paperwork and then basking in the warm glow of a good job well done.

Aziraphale realised how tired he was, of following the rules without question, of answering to a higher power that never answered back, of feeling as though a companionship that had endured millennia was something to be ashamed of. And now what? He had asked Crowley the same question earlier that day. _Lay low_ , had been his suggestion. Lay low and do _what_? Carry on gallivanting around the globe performing minor miracles as if his entire belief system hadn’t just been proven to be an almighty lie? They weren’t the good guys, for heaven’s sake, they were just one side who believed they were right and had piety in their corner, the physicality of goodness.

Could he escape it all, he wondered? Sell the shop, pack up the books and just _go_? Alpha Centauri was supposed to be lovely at that time of year, after all.

To be a celestial being tasked to live amongst humanity made for a solitary existence. Aside from bumping into infernal enemies who, as it turned out, were neither infernal nor enemies, there wasn’t much socialising to be done. As such, Aziraphale had made peace with his own company, relished it, in fact. To sit quietly with a new book, to wander through the park as dawn broke, those were some of his favourite ways to wile away the days when work was quiet and Crowley was away causing mischief. Since the early days they had always referred to it as _mischief_ , preferring not to delve into the reality of what existence as a fallen angel entailed. Aziraphale had seen it, though, peeking out from the corners of a carefully put together facade: the hollows under his cheeks, the haunted look in his eyes, disappearances that stretched over months where he was certain the demon did nothing but sleep and try to forget.

Yes, Aziraphale had never been afraid of being alone. So why was he already feeling the creeping dread of loneliness surround him like a rising tide? He felt untethered, drifting out to sea without a rudder to guide him or an anchor to ground him. What would he do the next day, he wondered? Go for a stroll to Borough Market to overbuy expensive cheese? Nip to the park for a nice refreshing walk before doing absolutely nothing of importance for the rest of eternity? Centuries of nothingness stretched out in his mind, ennui plunging him into the pits of madness, fingertips tracing imaginary worlds in the walls just to give him something, anything, to do.

Crowley would say it was the hangover. Beer fear, he called it, the dreads. _Don’t let the dreads get to you, angel_ , he’d said as they had left the apartment that afternoon. Crowley. The one constant in his life, like a shadow tip-toeing next to him for eternity, only with better cheekbones and narrower hips and those pointed canines that looked both treacherous and enticing when you got close enough and… Aziraphale shook his head, that wasn’t helping at all.

 _The bag_ , he thought, adrenaline pounding through his chest as he rushed to the desk and picked up the canvas bag he’d brought back with him earlier, _well, I’ll have to return it to him, won't I? Rude not to. Thievery doesn’t become an angel._

Loopholes were something Aziraphale and Crowley had in common.

As he slid the bag (of which Crowley had tens of duplicates stuffed into another bag in the back of a kitchen cupboard) over his arm he felt a weight pulling against one corner. He peered inside and felt his heart jump with the heady mix of trepidation and the excitement of discovering, finally, _something to do_. He might be relegated to wandering the globe alone for the rest of the Earth’s lifetime but now, with the power of Apple at his disposal, he would use those millennia to finally master technology.


	9. Dream Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s not very angelic, Aziraphale.” The voice was smooth like glass, or a knife’s edge.

**August 2018. Islington, London.**

Crowley stood in the corner of the dank room, the sweet smell of beer and weed hanging in the air like a cloud fat with rain. A droplet of cumulative sweat and condensation dripped from the ceiling onto the toe of his shoe as he folded his arms across his chest and tried to forget.

The roar of music vibrated through his body. It wasn’t enough. Lately, nothing was. He had been coming to the club for decades, ever since the demonic band names and lightning bolt scrawl on gig posters piqued his interest. It didn’t do much for him, the music, but the sheer volume of it, the all-encompassing wave of rage, that did wonders to quiet his mind. Or it used to, at least.

He took a deep drink from the bottle of beer that dangled lazily from one hand, the amber liquid remaining icy cool long after the other drinks in the room had settled somewhere between room temperature and lukewarm. Glancing around the club for the other regulars he spotted Old Mick front and centre, head thrashing along with the screaming guitars, fists balled with the thrill of it all, the heart-pounding energy radiating out from the machine gun pace of the drums. He wasn’t exactly a friend, Old Mick, Crowley didn’t have many of those, well, he had precisely one of those, but he was somebody recognisable, someone he was on a nodding basis with, somebody he could exchange pleasantries with on occasion. Something to tether him to that place, to make it a routine haunt with some semblance of familiarity.

As the band played on, long hair whipping back and forth as the crowd surged forward towards the grubby stage that did little to earn the title, Crowley found thoughts creeping in from his periphery. Dangerous ones, the type of thoughts he’d gone there precisely to avoid.

 _I would follow you anywhere_.

He let himself give in, just for a moment. Let his eyes close behind his glasses as his mind spiralled into places he rarely allowed it to roam, though it tried relentlessly. _A damp palm on his chest, ragged breaths, lips pressed to his neck._

“Fuck’s sake,” he hissed, shaking his head and stalking through the crowd to deposit the empty bottle back on the bar.

A brisk walk home, maybe even a light jog, that would help, wouldn’t it? He knew it wasn’t going to help. Even so, he found himself power-walking through Islington, hands buried in his pockets, customary glare plastered across his features.

A low rumble escaped the back of his throat as he strode past the Angel Wings sculpture, majestic twinned wings rising up into the night. Two minutes later the rumble evolved into a growl as Angel tube station came into view. He had just made himself a deal that if he saw one more angelic sign he would take it as divine intervention telling him to take a detour to Soho for _reasons_ when his phone rang.

“Aziraphale?” he panted, bringing the phone to his ear. “Are you okay? Shall I come over? Better had…”

“No, no, everything’s splendid, my dear. Just a couple of questions. Stumped a bit by this device, I’m afraid.”

Slowing his pace, Crowley took a look at his phone screen and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Angel, why are you calling me from your landline?”

“That’s one of the questions, if you’ll give me a minute. Patience is a virtue, Crowley. Instruction manual was a little unclear. How do I, er, call you?”

“I’m literally the only number in your phonebook.”

The line went muffled for a moment before Aziraphale returned, frustration ripe in his voice. “There’s nothing here that says phonebook!”

“Contacts. Tap the screen where it says Contacts.”

“Ah, a-ha. I see, I see, very good.”

 Crowley collapsed, exhausted, onto his sofa forty minutes later, tossing his phone onto the coffee table and reminding himself that he did, in fact, enjoy Aziraphale’s company. Forty minutes of tech support, also known as, _just tap the bloody screen_ , was almost enough to make him reconsider the whole infernal enemy thing. Almost.

***

Aziraphale was besotted. He brought the phone everywhere with him; set it gently on the countertop while he waited for the kettle to boil, clasped it in one hand as he flicked through a book with the other, stared into its obsidian screen and marvelled at its clean lines, slick edges. The only thing he hadn’t quite figured out was how to use it properly.

A smattering of rounded boxes littered the screen and one in the top row, _Messages_ , had a small red circle in its corner. That hadn’t been there when he’d last looked, he was sure of it. He tapped it, remembering Crowley’s advice of _if in doubt, tap_.

**From: Your Favourite Demon**

_Mon 17 Aug, 02:17_

Angel, this is a text. It’s like a letter, only instant. Tap the white box under this, type something to me, press the blue arrow, sit back and be astonished at technology.

 Aziraphale felt giddy with knowledge. This was a whole new world. He checked his watch, it was eighteen minutes past two. _Instant_ letters? This was quite something. He raised the phone close to his face and studiously typed back a message. 

Do you receive me? Aziraphale.

…

I know it’s you, Angel. I texted you first.

…

Jolly good. Aziraphale. 

While he waited for Crowley’s response, _probably off bullying an aloe vera_ , he thought, Aziraphale boldly began to explore the wonders hidden within the four glass walls of his phone.

He set an alarm for the next day, just for fun, really, he wouldn’t be sleeping, then managed to take a picture of the ceiling while wading into brave new territory with the camera. Finally, he tapped the pre-installed Deliveroo icon and found six sushi restaurants already favourited for him. He put it down to some sort of miraculous technological mind-reading.

The phone vibrated in his hand and he saw **Your Favourite Demon** flash up at the top of the screen, accompanied by a line of text he didn’t have time to read before it disappeared again.

“Damn,” he huffed.

“That’s not very angelic, Aziraphale."

The voice was smooth like glass, or a knife’s edge. On instinct, Aziraphale slid the phone down the side of his seat cushion and turned to find the Archangel Gabriel standing in the doorway of his shop, dressed in dove grey with a face like thunder.

Gabriel took a step forward, fixing violet eyes on Aziraphale’s face. The angel watched him carefully, awaiting judgement.

“Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Emissary on Earth, we delightfully invite you to the 62nd Divine Conference. Your attendance is requested from September 4th to 5th and is mandatory.” Gabriel rattled off the invitation in a breezy voice that turned darker as he continued. “We thought we’d bring things forward by a few years, given the _twist_ in the Great Plan. So much news to share, make sure you stick around for the keynote.”

“I, er, will certainly be there, old chap.” Aziraphale smiled politely, leaning back in his chair as Gabriel circled him with narrowed eyes. He thought back to the film about the giant shark Crowley had made him watch decades before, the ominous beat of the theme tune humming in his chest.

As suddenly as he’d appeared, Gabriel stopped and flashed him a smile, baring two rows of pearlescent teeth. Everything from his hair to his silver brogues gleamed, the picture of angelic perfection. On the outside, at least.

There was a flash of golden light and then Aziraphale was alone again. His heart began to race.


	10. Taking Care of Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the most exquisite torment, to be so close but have to turn away as if he was just another angel, just another enemy.

**September 2018. Head Office, Heaven and Hell**  

Head low, shoulders rounded, Crowley worked through a mental list of everywhere else he would rather be in that moment; it was a list that went so far as to feature the M25 at half past five on a bank holiday Friday afternoon.

When he’d received the panicked message from Aziraphale three weeks previously he hadn’t been too concerned. After all, heaven bringing the Divine Conference forward by a few decades wasn’t anything more than a distraction technique to gloss over their latest failing. Or so he thought. Later that evening a rerun of Silence of the Lambs had been interrupted by a demonic voice taking control of Hannibal Lecter to demand his attendance at the 62nd Infernal Conference in three weeks' time. Attendance was mandatory, they’d reinforced, in case he’d planned to slither his way out of it. Crowley was momentarily offended, until he admitted to himself that slithering his way out of it was exactly what he had intended to do.

And so he found himself in the gleaming celestial lobby, surrounded on all sides by unearthly beings, both demonic and angelic. It wasn’t very often that demons and angels rubbed shoulders without attempting to bring about an unholy war but that was one of the exceptional occasions. Their respective conferences had used to take place six months apart until hell had tried to invade the earth during the 13th Divine Conference and the angels had had to miss the afterparty to restore order.

The energy in the room was _unusual;_  the golden glow of hope and love from the angels mixing with the demons’ despair and misery like an oil slick on a river. Crowley looked across at the demon to his left, who glared at him, and the angel to his right, who glared at him but with added snobbery for good measure, and opted to train his eyes on the ground instead. _What’s the bloody point?_ he thought; he was hated by the angels for being fallen and hated by the demons for starting life as an angel. Too soft, they called him, among other things. Was it any wonder he chose to spend his time around humanity? Bit less glaring from the general population, even the occasional _good morning_ if you caught them in the right mood.

As the crowd built up behind him, the twin escalators came into view. The right side loomed up indefinitely, disappearing into a haze of light and cloud, while the left side plummeted down, down, down into a faint orange glow. As he joined the meandering queue and watched his fellow fallen start the juddering journey down into hell, he wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if he tried to take the other path. Unprecedented, he expected, doomed to failure. Still, it would liven things up a bit wouldn’t it?

He felt him before he saw him, felt the ache in his shoulders ease, the ever-present feeling of hopelessness ebb away, felt comfort swell in the spaces left behind. _Home_. He twisted on the spot, bodies packed too closely together on either side for him to be able to move anywhere. He saw a sea of nondescript faces in the crowd and then, looking exactly like heaven on Earth, his angel.

It had been a little over three weeks since that last day they’d spent together, Aziraphale horizontal on the sofa nursing his head for most of it, while he had fussed over breakfast and helpfully explained that hangovers all come down to dehydration, really. It had been a mundane Sunday, all things considered, and yet he had clung to it, the last memory of being with the angel.

When Aziraphale turned, eyes roving over the crowd, the smile that spread across his features when he caught sight of Crowley was nothing less than miraculous. He raised a hand, then lowered it when he remembered they were supposed to be laying low and that rushing to throw his arms around the shoulders of the most unholy of demons might arouse suspicion.

It was the most exquisite torment, to be so close but have to turn away as if he was just another angel, just another enemy. He couldn’t help but steal a second look, then a third, and when they stepped onto the escalators that pulled them further apart with every moment, Crowley looked up to find something unknowable in Aziraphale’s eyes, something that might have been a promise, and then he was gone.

***

“Check-in desk number three, sir.” The demon bared what remained of their teeth in what Crowley presumed was supposed to be a smile, the stench of rotting fish stinging his eyes as they spoke.

“I’ve already _been_ to check-in desk number three and they told me to come here,” he explained, slowly, for the second time.

“You didn’t have form 23B with you, though, did you? You need to pick that up from us and then make your way to check-in desk number three. Have you picked up your lanyard from desk 49? You’ll need that too. Now, if you don’t mind, sir, we have a lot of other entities to get to.”

Crowley balled form 23B in his fist as he stalked down the dimly lit room towards desk 49, which was situated directly underneath a leaking pipe. The smell of dried blood and decay wafted up from the floor with every step and he longed for his apartment, to be able to throw the windows open and suck in lungfuls of cool evening air.

He had been attempting to gain entry to the conference for two hours and was one piece of paperwork away from marching up to Satan himself and telling him to shove the conference, eternal damnation, the whole bloody thing. The road to hell was paved with paperwork and hell itself was unfettered bureaucracy.

***

“Sparking water, sir? White wine?” Flashing him a dazzling smile that almost reached her eyes, the statuesque angel on the welcome desk slid a laminated lanyard around Aziraphale’s neck and offered him a cut crystal glass.

“Spritzer, if you would be so kind,” he replied, nodding gratefully when she snapped her fingers and the glass filled itself with golden liquid.

“Very good, sir. Now, if you wouldn’t mind making your way down to my colleague on the left they’ll check you in and get you off to your first panel. I believe you’re booked in for…”

“ _Canonisation: Four Steps to Eternal Glory._ ” Aziraphale glanced down at the neatly highlighted schedule in his hand. He was interested in neither canonisation nor eternal glory but the other option had been to attend Gabriel’s panel about the importance of ecumenism in the modern age and he didn’t have the energy to pretend not to be incensed by the double standard.

“Enjoy your Divine Conference, Principality Aziraphale, please join us back here after this morning’s talks for the champagne and canapé reception. Have a blessed day.”

“Blessed day,” he murmured over his shoulder, necking the wine, which was somehow both tart and sweet in all the right places. He picked up a second glass on the way into the conference hall and had miracled a third before the end of the opening remarks. He might have lost his faith in heaven but he had to admit, nobody knew how to organise a conference like the seraphim.


	11. God Loves a Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley was in buzzword hell, which was a lot like your run of the mill underworld but with a lot more references to synergy and time boxing.

******September 2018. Head Office, Heaven and Hell.**

Aziraphale was pinwheeling the fine line between suitably merry and oh-no-I’ve-made-a-terrible-error drunk. He had deemed alcohol the only solution to his problem of feeling rage pulsate through his body with every moment he spent in heaven. Beings of _love_ , blessed day, go forth in peace…what did any of it mean any more? They had been a hair’s breadth away from destroying humanity over the potential to point score against hell. Hell, of course, being full of angels they’d cast out for asking too many questions, so what did that say about the hypocrisy of Gabriel’s never-ending _nobody is beyond forgiveness_ bleating?

He was standing alone at lunch by an ice sculpture of St Paul, eating prawn canapés directly off of the waiter’s tray when he dug his phone out of his coat pocket and found a string of messages from Crowley.

Angel, how is it going up there? Still haven’t made it inside down here. On a quest to find a lanyard.

…

Save me from this Kafkaesque hellscape.

…

Who knew the underworld had such a robust 4G network?

…

Aziraphale smiled down at the screen, remembered seeing the dog-eared book of collected Kafka on the demon’s bookshelf that he’d given to him years before. Before he had a chance to reply, an old colleague from the Department of Second Degree Miracles clapped him on the back and asked what in heaven’s name he’d been up to for the past six and a half thousand years.

“Oh, you know.” Aziraphale shrugged, depositing the phone back in his pocket. “This and that.”

“This and that,” the angel mimicked, breaking into a laugh, a high tinkling sound that wasn’t far removed from a piano’s top octave. “Always so modest. We heard you’ve been presiding over the little ones down on Earth. Divine work, Aziraphale, really.”

“Very kind, thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I must…” He pretended to recognise somebody heading back into the conference hall, gave an apologetic smile and scurried away, wine in one hand, the other curled around the phone in his pocket. He’d felt it vibrate twice more while they were talking.

***

“And so, in closing, to maximise return I urge you all to do your research, find out who has the biggest sway over other humans and start there. Grab some face time with your division’s Earth rep if you need a starting point, I believe we have one or two in the audience here. Folks, wave a hand. Or a cloven hoof, sorry, Baphomet.”

Crowley was in buzzword hell, which was a lot like your run of the mill underworld but with a lot more references to silos and time boxing.

He was slumped so low in his chair that his shoulders were near enough touching the seat, still he made the effort to lazily raise a hand and make sure Beelzebub saw that he was, in fact, entering in the team spirit of the conference. There had been words exchanged after he’d finally been admitted to the conference the day before, right as the morning’s talks were drawing to a close. _We’re watching you, Crowley_ , had come a harsh hiss in his ear, _very closely_.

When he’d been cast out of heaven and cursed to the bowels of hell for all eternity, he had thought there’d be a lot more fire and brimstone and a lot less mind-numbing guest speakers debating interdepartmental synergy to boost temptation in the modern age. It was all down to technology now, Crowley could have told them that if he’d wanted to be helpful in any way at all. Hack a nuclear missile station, poison the mind of a world leader, start whispers on social media about rebellion just across the border, that’s where hell’s best work could be found now - _online_ , just like everything else. It lacked craftsmanship, the others said, it was lazy, there was no nuance to it. They were sticklers for nuance, down in hell.

“Lunch is served in room 31F, everybody. The caterers let us down last minute so you’ll have to bear with us.”

 _Of course they did._  Crowley sighed as he filed out of the room and swung left to steal away in a quiet corner as the others rampaged down to room 31F to grab what they could. Probably celery again. It was always celery. Infernal strings getting stuck between your teeth to reside there forever and a day.

Heavy on the wine and snacks up here. Ghastly speakers this year, though. Do you know I sat through ninety minutes of cherubim debating whether the declaration of all dogs going to heaven should be reversed? Overcrowding, apparently. Aziraphale.

…

The day dogs are barred is the day heaven is truly lost, angel, mark my words.

…

Yes, the audience were furious. Somebody heckled. Then apologised, but even so. Dissent amongst the ranks! Aziraphale.

…

***

“Aziraphale, a moment, please.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, pursed his lips and wondered whether he could just keep walking, pretend he hadn’t heard Gabriel’s voice and get lost in the crowd who were heading into the main hall in preparation for the keynote speech that would close the conference and allow him to return to Earth. It was useless, he knew that. Gabriel was nothing if not ruthlessly determined, and he had some serious answering to do. He fixed his most personable smile on his face, turned and opened his arms as if the sound of Gabriel’s voice was a welcome surprise.

“Gabriel! Splendid conference, my good chap. Shall we?”

“Yes,” Gabriel bit, nodding towards an open door on the other side of the conference hall, where Raphael was waiting for them. “We shall.”

“It’s been how many years since your last appraisal?” Raphael asked, sifting through the paperwork that lay on the desk in front of them. With the two archangels on one side, backs resting against ornately carved golden chairs, and Aziraphale perched on the opposite side on a white stool with his back to the door, he felt wholly outranked.

“Ninety two, I believe.” Aziraphale leaned forward, felt the rising dizziness of wine swirling in his head. He felt top heavy, as though he could pitch forward until his forehead found the cool floor, curl up and have a pleasant little snooze.

“Ninety two years…” Raphael trailed off, licking one index finger and leafing through papers until they found what they were looking for. “You have been a very busy principality, haven’t you?”

Raphael had been his direct supervisor since he was sent to guard Eden’s Eastern Gate. With a reputation of being firm but fair, as long as you did your job to the best of your ability and filed your paperwork on time, Raphael was a pleasant superior to exist under. The only fly in the ointment was that Aziraphale hated paperwork, abhorred it in fact, and was rather prone to writing his reports in oversized, looping text that meant a couple of sentences could fill the entire page. He’d been pulled up on inadequate paperwork before but the rest of his work was of a high enough standard that Raphael usually let it slide. That was, he expected, until he played a part in ruining the plans for the great battle between heaven and hell, millennia in the making.

“Solid work throughout World War II, we were particularly impressed with your work in London. Inspiring spirit during the Blitz. Down to you, we presume?”

Aziraphale smiled tightly, didn’t feel the need to explain that he hadn’t had much to do with it at all, had just done his best to minimise loss of life and lend a hand during street clean up efforts. As it so often was, the majority was down to humans themselves. Resilient things, even during the worst of times.

“Couple of cautions for too many frivolous miracles; you had a fun old time in the 60s, didn’t you?” Raphael peered over the desk, hint of an amused smile playing on their lips. Beside them, Gabriel sat stony-faced, arms folded resolutely against his chest.

“On the whole your work has been stellar, Aziraphale. You’ve always been one of our high achievers, you know that. Unfortunately, Gabriel has noted that we can’t ignore the downward trend. See here?” They turned a sheet of paper around that showed a line graph with a gentle downward slope. “This charts your departmental compliance over the past three centuries. As you can see, there isn’t a huge cause for concern but it’s a pattern we like to keep an eye on.”

“Speaking of patterns to keep an eye on, there have been a number of sightings of the demon Crowley in your close proximity.” The words burst forth from Gabriel as if he couldn’t possibly hold them in for another moment and, next to him, Raphael shifted in their seat, looked fleetingly at Aziraphale before looking down at the desk. Gabriel brandished a series of black and white photos, shot from a distance, of Aziraphale and Crowley in various situations: on the back of a yacht in St Tropez, walking through St James’ park eating ice cream, and working a wedding in Brighton. Unfortunately, he looked far too happy in the vast majority of them. Except for Brighton, he had been furious with Crowley that day, for _very_ good reason. “Care you explain why you’re sharing a bottle of champagne with the infernal enemy?”

Gabriel’s voice had risen to a pitch that fell halfway between a shriek and a bellow, and Aziraphale was suddenly regretting all of the wine from that morning. He hadn’t expected Crowley to be brought up so soon, thought he would have had time to think of something. Lying didn’t come naturally to him, in fact, it went against an angel’s very nature, but he had to think of something and he had to think of it quickly.

“The adversary Crowley is a…wily beast. A trickster of the highest degree. Mr Tricksy, I believe they call him _down there_. Try as I might, there are times when he is one step ahead of us, thwarts our plans for good. Locked in a millennia-long battle of thwarting, one might say.”

“And what happened in Tadfield this August, that was…thwarting?” Raphael asked, voice casually questioning, less angry than Aziraphale had predicted.

Before he had a chance to respond, Gabriel jumped in, waving Raphael's question away and gesturing towards the door. “A last minute change to the Great Plan. Direct orders from the Almighty. Thank you Raphael, I believe that’s everything here. If you'll excuse us...”

With one final glance back at Aziraphale, Raphael left the room and then they were alone, the principality and the archangel.

“Now we can speak candidly, there are rumours about you, Aziraphale, did you know that? Rumours that your faith has begun to waver, that you ask too many questions, that you have _ideas._ Not terribly smart, is it, to ask too many questions? You could ask…Mr Tricksy about that at your next lunch date, ask him what hell had waiting for him when he arrived.”

Aziraphale felt himself bristle, felt his fingers curl around his knees just to give them something to grip onto so he didn't fall them into fists. He swallowed deeply, trying to keep his expression neutral. This was what he had been afraid of, what had ping-ponged around his mind in the middle of the night when the city was sleeping and there was nothing to distract his thoughts. To punish _him_ , that was one thing, he did deserve it after all, could take discipline on the chin. To delve too deeply into his relationship with Crowley, however, to pry the corners of that secret box open and peer inside, that was something he would defend beyond reason.

“After all that unpleasantness with Armageddon, some might have thought you and the demon were working _together_. The Almighty has Her eyes on you, Aziraphale, She told me She’s..."

"She didn’t tell you anything, did She?” Emboldened by the wine, the need to keep Crowley out of the spotlight, and what might have been a full tray of prawns in his stomach, Aziraphale found himself speaking aloud instead of holding honesty safe in his mind. "Because you don’t have a _direct line_ to the Almighty, do you, Gabriel? Typical middle management, that’s always been your problem, obsessed with sounding more important than you actually are.”

It wasn’t until he finished speaking that Aziraphale considered his outburst might have been a mistake. He had known Gabriel for a very long time, for all of time, in fact, and he’d heard many things about the archangel’s compulsive aversion to being challenged. There were ten thousand fallen angels in hell who could attest to that, one of whom he was putting his existence on the line for without a second thought.

Gabriel looked down at the desk and smiled, uttering a quiet chuckle. Rising from his chair, the archangel strutted round to the front of the desk, perched on the edge and leaned close to Aziraphale, splaying his fingers and giving him an apologetic smile, the very same smile he had given the fallen before he delivered their sentence.

"I’ve always liked you, Aziraphale. You’ve always been smart, inventive, always shown great potential. They said you could have joined the seraphim one day, did you know that? Not important now.”

As Gabriel’s words echoed around the room, they rose like a crescendo.

“There are going to be some changes around here, Aziraphale. Raphael is, what do you call it, a soft touch? You now report directly to me. We will meet once a week to review your progress and we will be keeping an _eye_ on you until we know there won’t be any more…thwarting, did you call it? Now, please make your way to the conference hall for the keynote. I think you’ll find the closing remarks particularly prevalent.”

Sweeping away in a cloud of pale grey and self-satisfaction, Gabriel paused in the doorway to turn back to Aziraphale, his parting shot accompanied by a smile that dripped with malice. “Fascinating, isn’t it, what holy water does to a demon? Have you ever seen what’s left of them afterwards? It’s supposed to be quite something.”


	12. The Light We Cast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine angels hollered until the walls quaked, feet pounding the floor until fine dust escaped from a dislodged pillar; one angel clenched his fists by his sides and prayed for his flaming sword to be returned post haste.

******September 2018. Head Office, Heaven.**

Aziraphale had never leaned into violence, had always preferred to take a more peaceful approach to guardianship. With that said, he had spent the past fifteen minutes imagining more and more creative ways to extinguish Gabriel from existence. His favourite involved a canoe, honey, and flies by the bucketload; it was a particularly brutal technique he’d heard whispers of in ancient Persia and had tried his best to purge the thought from his mind. Now, however, he found the idea of Gabriel swarming with flies to be quite the afternoon treat.

After the unexpected ending to his appraisal, Aziraphale had sat in calm silence until he was sure he was alone, before he raised one trembling hand and examined the crescent shaped indents his nails had gouged into his palms.

He’d seen the archangel peer out at the packed audience from the wings of the stage, then retreat back behind the golden velvet curtains when it was apparent they weren’t quite ready for him. He could have sworn Gabriel scanned the crowd in search of his face, smiling to himself when he caught sight of him.

The hum of mindless chatter fell away as the lights in the room dimmed and emerald green laser beams swung up from the ground and darted across the stage, painting a frantic pattern across the golden curtains, which fell away dramatically to reveal Gabriel staging centre-stage, just as a heavy electronic beat kicked in.

At the previous Divine Conference, Aziraphale had been the first on his feet when the keynote began, eager to hear Gabriel’s closing statement, to watch the charismatic master at work. The angel had had the dubious honour of running his own panel that time around, had settled on the title To Err is Human, Or Ten Things Celestial Beings Can Learn from Humanity. It was woefully received, with the compere urging the few attendees to move forward and sit closer together so the speaker didn’t feel like a spectacular failure before the talk had even begun.  _I appreciate the attempt to spare my feelings,_ Aziraphale had thought at the time,  _but I've been feeling like something of a colossal failure in heaven's eyes for many, many years now._

At the previous Divine Conference, however, Aziraphale hadn’t realised that heaven was a complete sham and Gabriel was a smarmy puppet master who used divinity as a glamour. He stayed rebelliously in his seat while the others leaped to their feet, punching the air and chanting Gabriel’s name as he paced around the stage, raising a hand to silence the crowd.

“Thank you, as always, for the warm reception, my family. What a conference, am I right? A round of applause for the seraphim, who did a _heavenly_ job of organising our most well-attended conference since the Big Bang.”

A pause for more clapping. Aziraphale closed his eyes and sighed. It was inane, it really was, like monkeys baying for bananas.

“And we couldn’t have done it without our volunteers, give them a hand, everybody!” Gabriel gestured to the immaculately dressed angels in the front row who stood and gave a bow in perfect sync with each other. Aziraphale gave them a limp clap, if only because they had kept his glass hearteningly full throughout the two days.

“Now, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the _changes_ to the Great Plan. I know a lot of you were disappointed when you heard the news that Armageddon had been delayed indefinitely, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of your thoughtful feedback. We are a family here and the foundation of family is honesty. And so, you deserve the truth.”

Aziraphale sat up slowly, leaning forward in disbelief as Gabriel addressed the room, palms held aloft as he paused, christ-like, until the applause died down.

“It was never the Almighty’s plan for us to defeat hell in armed combat. We are beings of peace, of love, after all. We preach forgiveness, repentance. What would we become if we resorted to violence? We would be no better than our fallen brethren, the Almighty bless them.”

“Bless them, bless them,” the mumble of repetition echoed around the room.

“It was one of the Almighty’s great tests, a test to see if we would would fall to the temptation of violence, if we would use bloodshed to settle the Great War between heaven and hell. But we thwarted the enemy at the final moment. However _tricksy_ they might appear we are stronger, we are full of grace, we are _divine_. We passed the test, friends, we passed the test!”

The room erupted into rapturous applause, angels tossing golden caps into the air and whooping with sheer delight. They had pleased the Almighty, they had passed the test. Except, as Aziraphale and Gabriel were the only beings who knew, there never was a test. Just a demon, an angel, and an eleven year old boy determined to save humanity.

As he looked around at his colleagues’ delighted faces, saw their joy at believing they had pleased the Almighty, belief based on nothing more than misplaced faith in Gabriel, Aziraphale felt his last shred of loyalty to heaven fall away. He had looked behind the curtain and it was a rotting mess of deceit. Gabriel was no longer a beacon of hope, a figurehead to impress, he was a predator stalking the stage, lapping up undeserved praise and basking in glory he had done nothing to earn. Aziraphale had been right, there was no direct line to the Almighty; he wondered if Gabriel had ever been in Her presence at all. He thought back to all of the things he’d done, the times he’d followed orders without question, even when it felt wrong. He thought of the confusion he’d felt when being congratulated for work that hadn’t felt divine, wondered how many _miracles_ he’d carried out believing the Almighty had desired them.

“Thank you, thank you. The only reason I’m great is because you’re great, don’t forget that.” Up on stage, Gabriel raised a hand to quiet the crowd and treated them to a wink. “Now, before we move onto our final presentation does anybody have any questions?”

The audience fell silent, aside from a few escaped chuckles from those who had been around long enough to understand the archangel's reference to the danger of questioning anything heaven insisted to be the truth.

“Just a little joke, we like to laugh up here, don’t we? Questions. What angel in their right mind would ask questions, we all saw the fallen, right? Please enjoy the presentation…”

The spotlight on stage faded to black as the screen behind Gabriel jumped to life and began to play a montage of perfect marshmallow clouds, crashing waves, a sunset over the mountains. The delicate strains of a hundred harps being plucked to perfection filled the room, and the angels stared at the screen, transfixed.

“Imagine an eternity where divinity and humanity transcend space and time, caught up together in the clouds to meet the Almighty in the air, bound to be forever with the Lord, in peace, in love.” The voiceover was melodic almost to the point of hypnotism. Aziraphale felt something deep in his chest yearn for the words but then tore his gaze away to see Gabriel standing stage left, staring directly at him, unblinking and utterly unreadable.

“Angels of heaven, Armageddon lays behind us, ahead of us lays the Rapture.”

The screen zoomed in on a freeze frame of a small child hugging a kitten as the words _Rapture 2020_ swirled their way across the screen.

“Rapture 2020, everybody!” Gabriel gestured up towards the screen and beamed as the room went wild. Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine angels hollered until the walls quaked, feet pounding the floor until fine dust escaped from a dislodged pillar; one angel clenched his fists by his sides and prayed for his flaming sword to be returned post haste.

“Thank you for coming, you’ll receive your Rapture briefing from your direct supervisor in the coming months. Now, please join us in the lobby for a champagne reception to celebrate. To ineffability!”

Gabriel had almost made it off stage and Aziraphale’s breathing had almost returned to normal, when the archangel leaned back out from the wings as if he’d only just remembered something.

“One more thing, friends, if I could keep you for just another moment. The Rapture is a new beginning, a time to move beyond past wickedness, to repent and start anew. It is a blank slate, for humanity, for all of us. And so, for the first time we are opening heaven’s doors thanks to the upcoming Repentance and Rehabilitation Programme. Stay tuned, the fallen may walk among us yet."


	13. Seaside Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fancy a jolly to Brighton?” the angel asked, retrieving a bottle of suncream from the basket and brandishing it in Crowley’s direction, looking pointedly at the demon’s pale skin.

**July 1982. Brighton**

It was precisely too early in the morning when a frantic buzz at the intercom woke Crowley from a dreamless sleep. Whether or not he technically needed it, catching a full eight hours on weekend nights was a routine he was loathe to depart from.

Stalking out of his bedroom and into the hallway that led to the front door, he clapped one hand over the intercom and hissed into it, rolling his eyes when he heard a voice come tumbling through that was far too cheery for dawn.

Two minutes later came a bright rapping against the door. Crowley swung it open to find Aziraphale standing there, a folded tartan blanket over one arm and, inexplicably, a picnic basket in the other.

“Fancy a jolly to Brighton?” the angel asked, retrieving a redundant bottle of suncream from the basket and brandishing it in Crowley’s direction, looking pointedly at the demon’s pale skin.

“Minor miracle to perform on the beach?” Crowley cocked an eyebrow, reaching for his keys. “How long are we going for?”

“Just a day,” Aziraphale promised, “I wouldn’t ask, only…”

“Only?”

“Public transport, Crowley, on a day like this?”

“Heavens above, how could you bear the burden?”

Aziraphale was halfway through his next sentence before he registered the sarcasm dripping from the demon’s voice. “Yes, well, I thought it would at least keep you out of trouble for a day, stop you getting up to any…mischief.”

“Mischief.”

“If we beat the traffic we might have time for breakfast before duty calls.” Aziraphale rocked from foot to foot, glancing impatiently down the corridor.

After a brief scuffle about who got to play DJ (Crowley reasoned it was pointless, all the tapes had been in the car for more than a fortnight, while Aziraphale was suspicious of being tricked into listening to bebop) the Bentley sprang to life and they weaved through London’s streets at a pace that saw Aziraphale’s knuckles turn a whiter shade of pale before they bore right onto Aldwych.

“Chill out, angel.” Crowley dug a gentle elbow against his ribs. “We’ve got a long way to go.”

***

“I’ll meet you back here in…” Aziraphale paused to peer down at his watch. “Three hours.”

“Three hours? What am I supposed to do for three hours while you’re off…gallivanting?”

“I’m not _gallivanting_ , I’m working. Just stay out of trouble and I’ll treat you to some chips.”

As Aziraphale slipped inside the church, Crowley hunkered down on the stone wall on the opposite side of the road. He pondered Aziraphale’s proposal; he _did_ like chips, but did he like them more than, what did Aziraphale call it, mischief? A half second of deliberation confirmed that he did not, in fact, prefer chips to mischief and so he stole around the side of the church, giving it an adequately wide berth, to ingratiate himself with the waiters in the catering tent outside.

***

Aziraphale loved weddings, always had. Couldn’t resist stopping by to watch the happy couple emerge, hands entwined, beaming with unadulterated joy as they started their new lives together. He had frequently been responsible for miraculous last minute sunshine in April, for wedding singers suddenly having perfect pitch, for nieces and nephews remaining mercifully quiet during the vows. It was the sheer love of two beings choosing each other from amongst the billions that warmed him from the inside out, so whenever he could attend a wedding in a work capacity he volunteered in a heartbeat.

The ceremony had been magnificent; the groom had shed that all-important tear when he turned and saw his bride for the first time, breathtaking in a flowing white gown, the hymns had been word perfect (Aziraphale playing a small part in muting a particularly enthusiastic, if potentially tone deaf aunt), and the first kiss had everybody in the congregation  _ahhh_ ing with the romance of it all.

The bride and groom made their triumphant exit from the church, confetti and rice raining down on them as the photographer knelt low to get the best angle, while Aziraphale made his way to the catering tent on the far side of the green next door to the church and prepared for work.

“All right?” Crowley asked, sidling up and offering him a pristine white shirt and black suit trousers. “We can get changed in the pub toilets apparently. Canapes are doing the rounds in twenty minutes.”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Aziraphale hissed, snatching the shirt and stalking off towards the pub. “Do _not_ follow me.”

“Well I can’t very well get changed in here next to the food, can I? Hygiene laws and that.” Crowley loped alongside him, long legs making up the distance in a matter of strides.

“I told you to stay out of trouble, I’m working.”

Crowley reached the pub first, held the door open and let Aziraphale bustle past him. “So am I, Fred called in sick and they needed an extra pair of hands on champagne duty. A _lifesaver_ , they called me. Heavenly, some might say.”

“I don’t like to be watched.” As they changed in side by side cubicles, Aziraphale’s voice filtered over the dividing wall.

“Come again, angel?” Foot resting on top of the closed toilet lid as he tied the laces of shining black brogues, Crowley looked down at the gap between the cubicles, saw Aziraphale pacing in tight circles as he tried and failed to tie the pre-requisite diamond point bow tie.

“I can’t _perform_ properly if I’m being watched, you know that!” Voice rising with frustration as he wrenched the tie from his neck, Aziraphale slammed the cubicle door open and raced over to a mirror for a closer look.

Starched collar standing up to attention, Aziraphale threaded the strip of black satin fabric around his neck, attempted to slow his breathing and tried the tie one more time. Tongue peeking out in concentration, he managed to get to the point of the bow resembling a limp shoelace before he wailed in fury and slung it into a nearby sink.

“I hate these infernal things!”

Crowley, who had been quietly observing the meltdown from his own open cubicle, stepped forward to pick up the tie and shake it miraculously dry. He slid it around the angel’s upturned collar, running his fingers across the back of Aziraphale’s neck to smooth the fabric. “Let me, infernal things are more my area anyway.”

Deft fingers worked the fabric until it was knotted into a picture perfect bow tie, while Aziraphale watching their reflection in the mirror behind. Work complete, Crowley folded the collar down and rested his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “See? Nothing to get angry about.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale looked at him, smiled bashfully. “You know I always get fidgety when I have to work with doves.”

“Notoriously stubborn,” the demon agreed. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen one behave at a wedding without a little divine encouragement.”

By the time he’d finished the sentence Aziraphale was pulling at the collar of his shirt, sliding an index finger between his throat and the fabric to try and loosen the fit. Crowley watched him, amused, realising this was why the angel preferred to pose as a wedding guest over a member of staff. He’d always hated modern suits, complained relentlessly that he couldn’t breathe in a dress shirt, preferred his comfortable waistcoat and loose bow tie to the confines of formal dress.

Leaning in towards the mirror, Crowley adjusted his glasses until they sat neatly on the bridge of his nose, eyes obscured from all angles. If there was one place where he didn’t want to be rumbled it was a stone’s throw from hallowed ground. His skin had already started to itch.

“You know, I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you wearing white since, you know. Look at you, I knew there was some angel in you.” Aziraphale clapped a hand against his thigh in glee as Crowley met his eyes in the mirror, an eyebrow raised.

“I’m working on it, angel, I really am.”

“What was that, dear?”

"Nothing." Looking down at his hands as he rubbed soap into them, Crowley pressed his lips together to hide a smirk. “Better go, mischief beckons.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale bellowed, racing after him as the demon jogged down the pub steps and headed back towards the reception marquee. “If you do there will be no chips!”

***

“We release these doves to celebrate Martha and Rory on their special day. These beautiful birds represent the love and peace that we pray you find every day in your new lives together.”

As the officiant unclipped the fastening on the white wicker basket, Aziraphale lowered his tray of champagne glasses and took a step forward, focusing his mind on nothing other than urging the little blighters to do what they were supposed to do and dramatically flit into the sky. Why did humans have such a preoccupation with doves anyway?

The two snowy white birds spread their wings and flew gracefully into the air, dark eyes twitching from left to right as they observed the assembled guests clapping below them. With the bride and groom framed in the shot, the photographer fiddled with the focus to snap a perfect picture as the doves ascended.

The delighted cheers from the audience soon turned into gasps of horror as a black crow swung left out of nowhere and made straight for the doves, huge wings arcing up, unfurled and ebony, taloned feet splayed wide.

The doves escaped with a few ruffled feathers, while the crow circled back and flew low over the crowd, sending a few particularly skittish guests running for the marquee, hands held high over their heads as they screamed in surprise. It came to rest on a low hanging branch next to the catering station, where a tall figure in dark glasses was trying his best not to dissolve into hysterics.

After slipping the crow a cube of melon, Crowley wiped his hands on the cloth napkin slung over his wrist and turned to find Aziraphale storming away from the marquee, fists balled at his sides.

“Come on, angel, it was funny!”

“I’m not talking to you.” Aziraphale picked up the pace, attempting to out-stride Crowley, who had the distinct advantage of being a number of inches longer in the leg department. By the time they had reached the pier Aziraphale had to pause to double over and catch his breath, while Crowley helpfully draped his coat over his back.

“You left this behind when you walked off for absolutely no reason.”

“I _know_ that was you. You can forget getting chips, honestly, I’m so angry with you.”

***

“Arcade?” Crowley suggested, biting into a golden, fluffy chip and offering the last one to Aziraphale.

“Yes, fine.” He’d been attempting to hold a grudge until at least the end of the afternoon but as they shared a cone of chips and Crowley wittered on about his favourite spots in Brighton he felt himself begin to soften. They were sitting side by side on top of the stone sea wall, legs swinging as a breeze rolled in from the sea and cooled the afternoon sunshine. It was a beautiful day and, crow attack notwithstanding, work had all gone to plan quite nicely; the wedding had been a success and he could file a report that evening with head office just in time for his next deadline.

There was something about Brighton Pier that had always felt timeless to Aziraphale. He’d strolled down the promenades, old and new, tens of times since the Chain Pier of the 1820s and loved returning to see how the area evolved over time. There was always a feeling of coming home, of nostalgia for something he couldn’t quite place, and he felt it that day too, walking shoulder to shoulder with his sworn nemesis as they headed into the technological mecca of the arcade.

As Aziraphale loved weddings, Crowley loved video games. Specifically, arcade games that were deemed impossible to defeat. He could spend hours trying to beat that one level that reduced grown adults to tears. He enjoyed the thrill of labouring over the game’s mechanics, finally mastering them, claiming victory without a single miraculous intervention.

He gave Aziraphale a fistful of change and sent him off to play Pac-Man while he set his sights on finally conquering Sinistar, a new release that he'd been plugging away at for the best part of four months. As music thumped in the background, teenagers sprinted past towards claw machines, and his Slush Puppie began to thaw, Crowley centred himself and prepared to do battle once more.

“Son of a bitch,” he hissed, just as the Sinistar bobbed across the screen and he stabbed at the buttons just so, right hand wrapped around the joystick as he guided his ship around the obstacles. As the ship withered away after a fatal hit, Crowley pounded the machine with his fists and uttered a guttural roar of fury.

“Everything all right, dear?” Aziraphale called over his shoulder, sighing happily as he guided Pac-Man towards a cherry in the centre of the screen.

“Conceived by Satan himself,” Crowley seethed, slipping another coin into the machine and rolling his shoulders back to assume the position.

The time, when the Sinistar made its appearance, Crowley was one step ahead. He dodged, span and shot Sinibombs to perfection until, finally, the screen strobed yellow and red and those merciful words appeared: CONGRATULATIONS. YOU DEFEATED THE SINISTAR.

“Yes!” He jumped back in surprise, both hands clasped to his forehead in shock. “I did it. I bloody did it! Everybody, I did it!”

While the rest of the crowd in the arcade politely ignored his effusive celebrations, Crowley frantically typed his name into the high score screen, feeling the thrill of victory course through his body. A score like that warranted something special to celebrate. More chips, perhaps. Maybe they could… _wait_ , the thought died in his mind before he had a chance to finish it. _That score_ … he leaned in closer to the screen, peered over his glasses to make out the last three digits of his high score.

**AJC ——————— 39,666**

Crowley’s blood was pretty cold as blood went, serpentine origins and all that, but a deep freeze took hold of his circulatory system as realisation dawned on him. He stood very still, counted backwards from ten in an attempt to calm himself, and turned to face Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale,” he said lightly, leaning over the angel’s shoulder as he attempted to out-manoeuvre a particularly dedicated ghost.

“Yes, Crowley?”

“Been up to any, er, _mischief_?” his voice rose with every word, until he was fairly sure only dogs could hear him.

“How dare you, I did nothing of the sort.” Aziraphale fussed with the pocket of his coat, looked down at his shoes, up at the screen, anywhere except directly at Crowley. Eventually, under the demon’s piercing gaze, he confessed, sort of. “Just like you didn’t have anything to do with the crow earlier.”

Crowley opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head and extended a hand. “Touché. Truce?”

***

With the sun setting behind them, an angel and a demon drove back to London with the windows down and salt on their skin. Music blasted from the Bentley’s speakers and Aziraphale, despite not knowing a single lyric, hummed along while pretending to conduct the particularly rousing instrumental sections. With one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel and the other curled around the back of Aziraphale’s seat, Crowley watched the road rise up ahead of them and smiled at the jackpot he had won in the infernal enemy stakes.


	14. Asleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It bought them time, the possibility of a future made of more than pipe dreams and late night honesty delivered on a phone screen.

**September 2018. Crowley’s apartment, London.**

“Looking lovely, Freddie,” Aziraphale cooed approvingly, leaning close to spray a fine mist of water onto the plant’s shining green leaves. He turned to a relative newcomer who was proudly displaying tiny pinpricks of fiery orange flowers and dutifully watered the saucer the plant pot stood in, as per Crowley’s militant instructions.

It took longer than he thought, pacing through the apartment to tend to the plants, adhering to each specimen’s specific needs. Some needed misting, others a heavy watering, while a couple needed rotating every few days to avoid sunburn. Who knew plant parenting was such a demanding job? Not Aziraphale, not until he offered to keep an eye on Crowley’s plants while he was away. New York, the angel assumed, given the time of year. He had thought about asking to go with him, had typed and deleted an untold amount of messages suggesting the idea, but ultimately had decided against it. They were supposed to be laying low, after all, keeping each other safe in the wake of the Armageddon-that-wasn’t. _Technically_ , Aziraphale had reasoned, the plant watering arrangement wasn’t breaking any rules; he might be visiting Crowley’s apartment but Crowley wasn’t actually there so…three cheers for loopholes.

“So many,” he muttered, drawing a series of neat ticks down the lined paper as he checked off the plants he’d watered that day. For all of his devil-may-care spontaneity, Crowley was meticulous when it came to the house plants. He’d left Aziraphale a full guide to who needed how much water how frequently, who needed to be carefully checked for leaf spots, and who was allowed an extra drip feeder if they exhibited good behaviour.

While he was happy to help out, he was an angel after all, and good deeds were the basis of his very existence, he would be lying if he pretended it was an entirely selfless endeavour. It was a thinly veiled excuse to spend time in Crowley’s space, to feel a little closer to him, even if there was a sprawling ocean between them. He’d spent the afternoon fussing over the little details in the apartment: dusting the blinds, wiping down the inside of the kitchen cupboards, stocking the fridge with good cheese and plump, juicy berries, had ventured out to pick up a couple of bottles of red the two of them had shared before on their travels. They couldn’t enjoy them together, of course, but perhaps he could take one back to the shop and they could drink them in tandem.

With the plants taken care of, the apartment sparkling, and the fridge fully stocked, there was nothing else for Aziraphale to do. And yet, the thought of leaving to head back to the shop, to spend another night sitting alone and ruminating on what in the world the ominous message at the end of the conference meant filled him with dread.

Perhaps sleep would help. Crowley always said it was impossible not to feel a little bit better after a good, long sleep, and he was in the perfect place for it. That big, imposing bed, cloud-soft duvet, mattress that curved to the exact contours of your body; if Aziraphale was going to attempt sleep then surely it didn’t made sense to trek all the way across London, not when there was a perfectly good, empty bedroom right there.

Stepping into the bedroom unlocked the longing Aziraphale had been doing everything to tune out. It had been weeks, near enough a month, since they had been together, but it felt like an eternity. That brief glance on the morning of the conference had been the closest thing to torture he had ever experienced. In that moment, standing alone in Crowley’s bedroom, the memory of him thump thump thumping in Aziraphale’s chest, the need to be with him was so potent it bordered on painful.

Sliding his shirt over his head and folding it over the edge of the dresser, he slipped under the duvet and curled up, knees to chest, finding that familiar amber and whisky scent wound into the fabric of the pillow. Aziraphale closed his eyes, breathing him in and drawing comfort from the fact his own body now lay where Crowley’s did most nights.

He had spent millennia wandering Earth alone, so why was it that night in particular that he felt loneliness so pronounced it burned somewhere deep in his chest, gnawing its way out from the inside?

When sleep came, eventually, it came in the form of half smiles and snake eyes, beautiful and dangerous, like everything worth having is.

***

Crowley tossed a slim folder of paperwork down on the coffee table and kicked off his shoes. Bone weary, he leaned on the back of the sofa and exhaled one calming breath, closing his eyes and reminding himself that he was home, the work was done, for a few days, at least. He’d been sent on a job while he was in New York, _as you’re in the neighbourhood_ , they’d said. It was the type of work he particularly loathed, insidious temptations that started a spiral that would snowball until it engulfed everything in its path. The sort of work that his mind replayed on nights when sleep wouldn’t let him escape.

It had to be done, however much it destroyed him inside. Business as usual helped him fly under the radar, helped sell the story that he’d been outsmarted by the enemy one more time that day when the world failed to end. It bought them time, the possibility of a future made of more than pipe dreams and late night honesty delivered on a phone screen. In the end, it all came down to what would bring him back to Aziraphale.

His phone, that rectangular sheet of glass and circuit boards that had never played a particularly important role in his life, had become a lifetime that he never let out of his sight. Every overly formal message, every meandering phone call that led nowhere and everywhere, it reminded him that there was _something_ worth all of the senseless horror, somebody to call home at the end of it all.

As he wandered through the apartment, pouring a glass of water, checking the plants, pondering the various ways he could sack off the entire celestial existence and disappear with nothing but his car and soulmate, he felt something lift in him. It was slight, a kernel of hope, a flicker of comfort that wrapped itself around him, but it was unmistakeable. A warm glow of reassurance, the promise that this pain, this loneliness wouldn’t haunt him forever.

And then he saw it. Simple enough, a book resting on the edge of the sofa, the cream coat hung on the coat rack. To Crowley, it was everything.

He eased the bedroom door open to find a sight that looked very much like perfection; his angel, fast asleep, face buried in the pillow. A faint light hovered around his body, golden dust dancing in the air. Even while asleep he couldn’t help but leave love in his wake. _And all I leave is misery._

He lingered in the doorway for a moment, committing every curve of him, every nuance to memory. The room was hot with sleepy breaths, the myrrh and vanilla scent that turned his head every time he smelled it hung heavily in the air. He padded gently over to the bed, sat down on the edge and marvelled at how vulnerable Aziraphale looked, how young.

Acting on nothing other than instinct, he reached out to lose his fingers in those thick white blond curls, whisper-soft feathers against his skin. Aziraphale moved under his touch, a sigh rumbling in his throat. Crowley leaned down, pressed his lips against the angel’s warm temple, just as Aziraphale stirred and looked up at him, sleepy eyes crinkling in the corners as if he was the best thing he’d ever seen.

“You’re here?” he asked, his voice curious, as if it might be a dream, and hopeful, as if it might not be.

“I’m here.” Crowley slipped into bed next to him, leaned against the palm of one hand, elbow crooked on the mattress. “Sleep, angel. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, settling back into sleep as easily as he had woken from it. As he drifted off he felt fingers slide between his in the dark, a thumb drawing circles on his palm. And when he dreamed he dreamed of nothing but waking up to find himself already home.


	15. Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You had a champagne reception and canapés, we had lukewarm celery and Elizabeth Bathory doing a cappella covers of songs from the fourteenth century. You know how I feel about the fourteenth century.”

**September 2018. Crowley’s apartment, London**

Crowley woke to find his face nestled in Aziraphale’s neck, an arm slung casually over the angel’s chest. He closed his eyes as gently as he’d opened them, trying to keep his body stock still; anything to prolong that moment, to pretend that wasn’t the first and last time he would wake up with his angel’s arms holding him close. With his mind’s usual merry-go-round of guilt temporarily halted, Crowley realised he was happy. Miraculously so.

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open just as a chink of sunlight stole its way through a gap in the curtains and painted the room with the golden light of dawn. Dappled shadows drew a checkerboard pattern across the bed, early morning warmth kissing their skin. Aziraphale looked down, saw Crowley’s eyes were still closed and drew silent messages with his fingertips on the demon’s back until he saw those dark lashes twitch.

“You weren’t supposed to be back for two days,” Aziraphale mused as he shifted position to rest his cheek against Crowley’s head, the words half lost in the demon’s hair.

“I can leave again if you like.”

At the sound of Crowley’s voice, low and sleepy, Aziraphale felt his teeth dig into his bottom lip. He thought of what Gabriel had told him, the threats heaven had promised, tried not to think about Crowley’s cool skin pressed against his, leaving fire in its wake. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

“Thank you.” Crowley untangled himself from the angel’s grip, sat up against the headboard and stretched his legs out under the duvet, tested the water by letting his thigh rest casually against Aziraphale’s. “For looking after the plants, I mean.”

“Any time, I’m getting quite good with them now.” Aziraphale paused, considered doing nothing more mentally taxing than spending the rest of the morning curled up around Crowley. Under the duvet his fingers hovered inches from Crowley’s thigh. He marvelled at what it might feel like to touch him so freely, then the thought of holy water searing across skin swelled in the darkest corners of his imagination and he pulled his hand back.

“Everything all right, angel?” Crowley asked, feeling Aziraphale tense next to him. “Tea?”

“Yes, yes everything’s fine, _better_ than fine. The best, really. Tea would be splendid.”

As Crowley padded out towards the kitchen, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor, Aziraphale watched him leave with a heavy sigh. He had spent the last week deliberating whether or not he should tell him about the keynote announcements at the end of the conference. He hadn’t had a chance to work through them in his own head, let alone try and articulate to Crowley what they might mean. On the surface, of course, it sounded a lot like hope, the idea that the Fallen could be forgiven. It could mean the end of everything that made their… _situation_ so dangerous, it could mean they had a chance. If that announcement had come two months previously he wouldn’t have stopped to question it for a second, but it hadn’t, and lately he found himself questioning everything that heaven said.

He just needed time, that was all, and he would think of something. He always had a plan, eventually, just needed to ruminate on it for long enough and the answer would drop into his lap. Perhaps he could find time to meet with Raphael alone and find out the specifics of the Repentance and Rehabilitation Programme, or the R+R, as it was already becoming known in heaven. It was suspiciously timed, announced moments after Gabriel had made his threats, but the desperate need for it to be genuine tugged at him.

As he agonised over when would be the perfect moment to tell Crowley, the demon backed into the room carrying a wide wooden tray that was heaving with every conceivable breakfast food, most of which Aziraphale had stocked the fridge with the day before.

“Seemed like a breakfast in bed kind of morning,” Crowley explained, setting the tray down on top of the duvet and climbing back into bed, his eyes flicking to Aziraphale as he attempted to gauge his reaction. Was it too much too soon? He knew Aziraphale’s proclivity to take things at a snail’s pace only too well. It had taken six thousand years to get to the point of him staying over not once but twice in a single month, perhaps breakfast in bed was pushing it.

Aziraphale bit into a buttery, flaky croissant, watched Crowley carefully pour out two cups of tea as sunlight filtered in through the windows and bathed him in light. He wondered how it was possible that he was ever cast out of heaven, would never be convinced that the demon had anything other than goodness at his core. It seemed such an overwhelming injustice that he remained in heaven, cowardly and compliant, while Crowley, whose only crime was curiosity, was bound to hell for eternity. He’d heard what hell was like from the rumour mill up in heaven, from those carefully chosen diplomats who made their way down there every few hundred years. Beyond comprehension, they had said, every moment spent down there pulled you closer to utter despair, hopelessness oozing out of every crevice.

He thought of his Crowley, who approached every dog he met with a smile that inevitably fell when they sensed his cursed soul and growled at him, who fitted so perfectly in his arms as they slept, who had been so patient with him for all those long years. He tried to imagine him spending another second in hell; it was almost too much to stand. He knew then that he would do whatever it took to take him away from that place, to build a world where every morning could be a breakfast in bed kind of morning. He just needed time.

***

“You had a champagne reception and canapés, we had lukewarm celery and Elizabeth Bathory doing a cappella covers of songs from the fourteenth century. You _know_ how I feel about the fourteenth century.” Crowley thrust his head back against the sofa cushions to reinforce just how much he hated the fourteenth century, in case there was any doubt. Aziraphale had never understood why he had such resentment for the time period; it had seen the birth of the Renaissance, at least.

“All style, no substance, that’s heaven’s problem.” Aziraphale sighed, weary as he recounted the announcement of the impending rapture, liberated as he openly spoke out against heaven for the first time, liked the way the quiet rebellion made him feel. “You should have seen it, Crowley. Lasers on stage, honestly.”

“Gabriel does like to make a spectacle of himself. So when is the next celestial disaster booked in for exactly?” Crowley popped the last half of a cracker laden with creamy vallage cheese into his mouth, closed his eyes in appreciation of the sharp salty taste.

“2020, they didn’t say much other than that, more news soon apparently. The whole thing was quite tiresome, everybody hollering as if it was the best thing they’d heard all millennium.”

“It probably was. Rapture is what you’ve all been waiting for, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale shrugged, took a sip from his wine glass. “I suppose. Sounds a bit dull, though, doesn’t it, eternal paradise?”

“The Sound of Music, ad nauseam, I already told you.” Crowley opened his mouth to slur his way through Climb Every Mountain, then saw the look on Aziraphale’s face and thought better of it.

“Don’t start with all that, you know how I feel about singing nuns.”

“Mmm, not up to snuff with the chattering ones.” Crowley smiled, thinking back to the nuns at St Beryl’s. He’d always had a soft spot for them, they’d treated him to the best biscuits whenever he’d visited pre-antichrist delivery.

By the time the wine was drunk and the cheese demolished, darkness had cloaked the sky and neither angel nor demon could put off saying goodbye any longer. They’d managed to stretch their stolen time together into a full day of lazing on the sofa and munching their way through a staggering amount of cheese as they set the world to rights, carefully dodging subjects they knew would lead to heartache.

“We’ve been here before,” Crowley said, his voice low as they stood facing in other in the doorway of his apartment. He looked down at Aziraphale’s face, gaze roving over the angel’s blue eyes, trusting and sweet, that open hopeful smile that made him believe there was a future that they could exist in.

“And yet we have to say goodbye once more.” Aziraphale took a step forward, found one hand snaking around Crowley’s neck, pulling him close. He rested his temple against the demon’s cheek, closed his eyes to focus on nothing other than breathing him in. “This feels like the big one, as it were.”

“It’s only temporary, angel, it only ever is.” Crowley pressed his forehead to Aziraphale’s, thinking how easy it would be to take his hand, to tempt him into staying, knowing he would regret not doing so the moment the door closed and he was left with nothing but memories.

“I’ll think of something, I promise. I will always find a way to get back to you.”

And then Aziraphale was gone, footsteps disappearing down the hallway, and Crowley was alone again.


	16. Gods and Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley paced a small circle, hands clasped behind his neck. He looked up at the moon and barked out a laugh. “Are you ever going to think about anything before you do it or do you plan on spending eternity blindly following orders? You have no idea what they’re asking you to do, do you?”
> 
> TW/CW: Suicide

**1768\. Watsons Bay, Australia**

The black water churned. Moonlight glinted off of the surface like a diamond, something precious and cold, unknowable. The white swell bubbled before being sucked under into the darkness.

Crowley sat on the edge of the cliff, legs swinging out from beyond the jagged rock. He peered down at the water, let it hypnotise him. How would it feel, he wondered, to pitch forward and plunge into the abyss? First, something, then, nothing. It was the impact that would do it, rather than the water. Pick a spot high enough and it would be like smashing into stone.

He glanced across at the jutting platform of stone to his left, stretching out across the water. It was almost inviting. Cruel, really. As if on cue the man stepped forward in the darkness, scratching nervously at the back of his hands, feet reluctant to take step after step across the craggy overhang.

Crowley leaned back on his elbows, hands sliding across the rock behind him, watched the man stop halfway across the platform, saw the doubt flicker across his face. It was one thing to consider it, but to tightrope the line between life and death, that was something else entirely.

Suicides were a demon’s bread and butter. Lean close and whisper just the right words, watch resolve firm up behind their eyes. One more soul claimed for head office, if you’d laid the right foundations. Head home and try not to think about the moment they’d gone from being to not-being. Crowley tended to avoid them, didn’t like the way he felt afterwards, but occasionally he would make an exception.

*** 

Aziraphale bustled through the trees, one hand clasped to his ribs as he puffed and panted his way towards the cliff edge. He prayed he would find the man standing there as he rounded the corner, breathed a sigh of relief when that’s exactly what he found.

Silhouetted against the night, he took in the man’s slumped shoulders, twitching hands. He was close but he wasn’t lost, not yet. There was still time. He approached the man from behind, was about to reveal himself when he felt something tug at his consciousness.

“Crowley,” he murmured into the darkness, taking a step back when the demon’s languid form rose from the rocks and meandered towards him, body weaving like a serpent.

“They sent you, really?” Crowley’s voice was bitingly cold, a frost withering everything in its wake. “Leave, angel.”

Aziraphale had expected it, of course, the first time they saw each other again. It had been how long since Morocco? Twenty years, maybe longer. Not long enough, apparently. He felt a tug in his chest, took a step towards the demon, reached out a hand and then remembered where they were, that anybody could be watching. Besides, he was there to work.

“What are you doing? You can’t just sit there and watch.” Aziraphale waved a hand towards the man, who had stumbled forward a few paces.

“No, quite right.” Crowley stood up and stepped forward, cupping his hands around his mouth as he yelled over to the man. “Get on with it then!”

He might not have heard Crowley but he certainly felt his presence, falling to his knees, palms kissing the stone as he wailed into the night, a sound more beast than human.

“Tell them it was an accident,” the man stammered, looking back at Crowley, narrowing his eyes as he took in the silhouette. “What they found, it wasn’t…I’m sick, I needed help. Tell them it wasn’t me, it was a…”

“I will tell them _nothing_ ,” the demon hissed back, eyes burning amber in the dark.

Aziraphale rushed forward, stepping between them, his skin glowing golden as he revealed himself. He laid a hand on the man’s shoulder, felt peace flow from his fingertips.

“There is always a chance for repentance and forgiveness,” he promised, feeling the man’s racing heart begin to slow, his panic begin to waver. He turned back to Crowley. “What is _wrong_ with you? You’re despicable.”

Crowley paced a small circle, hands clasped behind his neck. He looked up at the moon and barked out a laugh.

“Are you ever going to think about anything before you do it or do you plan on spending eternity blindly following orders? You have no idea what they’re asking you to do, do you?”

“Those are _precisely_ the type of dangerous questions that got you slithering through Eden on your belly.”

“Dangerous questions?” Crowley stared at him, flabbergasted, as if it was the first time he was truly seeing him. “You don’t know why you do any of this, do you? You trot off without question to do whatever little miracle they’ve asked of you and then pat yourself on the back when it’s done. What a _clever_ angel you are.”

“There’s no need to be rude, Crowley.”

Crowley looked down, sighed, staggered his hands on his hips. “I’m not being rude, I’m trying to help you see beyond heaven. You’re not any less angelic because you take a moment to think for yourself. It’s not going to turn you into…into me, I promise.”

Both angel and demon fell silent when they heard something shift behind them, turned to find the man looking across at them. He opened his mouth to speak but Crowley held up a hand to silence him.

“Hold on a minute, mate. This is well overdue.”

Aziraphale huffed quietly, glanced up at Crowley. “You’ve been wanting to say this ever since…”

“If you bring up Morocco, Aziraphale, I swear.” Crowley stepped forward, brandishing a finger in the angel’s face. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and took a step back, holding his hands up to signal the matter would be dropped, pronto.

Jabbing a thumb behind them to gesture to the man, Crowley dropped his voice and looked down at the angel. “Do you know who your lot have sent you to save, angel? Do you know what this man has done? Do you know why he’s here, what he’s running from? Justice. He wasn’t sorry until he got caught. Take a look at what he’s done and think about _them_ when you’re patting yourself on the back later.” He shot the angel a look of abject disgust and stalked away from them, tossing parting words into the night as he disappeared into the trees. “There are things beyond forgiveness. Goodbye, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley’s retreating back, felt an itch deep inside his bones to follow him, to explain that it wasn’t up to him to know any more about the Great Plan beyond what was told to him and it _certainly_ wasn’t up to him to question orders from heaven. That was precisely the crime that saw the Fallen standing up in front of a crowd of baying angels on that day so many thousands of years ago. He thought about the way they stood, chins risen with superiority, saw the way their self-assuredness cracked when Gabriel delivered their sentence. On that day he saw what happened to those who asked too many questions, and so from that day onward he had carried out his work diligently, coasting on the belief that heaven would never ask anything of him that wasn’t divine.

He thought of the things Crowley must have seen, how many dark deeds he must have carried out in hell’s name. Aziraphale knew he kept the worst of it from him, saved only the minor mischief for the Arrangement. And still, this tragic man who stood before them had revolted him. What terrors must a human have committed for a demon to recoil from them in disgust?

It was a personal pledge Aziraphale had made, to never meddle in the minds of humans. Sway them one way or another, plant the seed of a great idea, yes, but to look inside their memories and see what hid there, that was a line he had decided never to breach. There was something in the way Crowley had hissed at the man, the absolute fury burning in his eyes, that led Aziraphale to put his moral code to one side, to take a peek into the man’s memories and see what had driven him to the cliff’s edge.

A heartbeat later Aziraphale found himself staggering away from the cliffs, one hand clutched to his chest as he tried to comprehend what he had just seen. Two faces, impossibly tiny, staring out from a gap in fabric wrapped roughly around them, blank-eyed and grey-skinned. He had felt the man’s frustration when the grizzly discovery spread through the town, his resolute determination to run until the world moved on, to steal away until it was safe for him to put down new roots, to look for new opportunities. He felt the man’s agitation as the case closed in around him, as his carefully laid plans unravelled and he was left with the choice of responsibility or eternal escape.

Aziraphale had wrenched himself away at that point, couldn’t bear to live another second in the man’s twisted mind. He reached the forest and tried to purge what he had seen, heard the crash of a body hitting the water as he attempted to fathom why heaven would send him to save somebody so beyond forgiveness.


	17. The Show Must Go On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been eight months since the Arrangement had come to an end, and Aziraphale’s patience with playing the role of a perfect principality was wearing thin.

**December 2018. Gabriel’s Office, Heaven.**

“Nice work on the military leave, Aziraphale, upstairs liked that a lot. In keeping with the season. Spending Christmas with loved ones is a dear human tradition, I believe.” Gabriel dashed his finger across the bottom of Aziraphale’s report, his golden signature looping across the page.

“Yes, humans do love their Christmas traditions,” Aziraphale replied, lips tightly stretched into the semblance of a smile.

“And what do you do down there each year? No gift giving, I suppose?” Gabriel’s tone was deceptively light, glancing at Aziraphale from under hooded eyes as he filed the paperwork away in his desk.

“My busiest day of the year, always plenty to be getting on with. Must dash, same time next week?” He knew it was a redundant question; Gabriel hadn’t deviated from their weekly meetings since September and his careful monitoring of Aziraphale’s whereabouts didn’t seem poised to end any time soon.

From his side, Aziraphale had been performing the role of the perfect principality with exquisite attention to detail. He went about his work with enthusiasm the likes of which even Gabriel had to credit him for. His paperwork was meticulous, no more rushed reports containing vague details of miracles like ‘helped sad dog’, ‘thought rainbow might cheer up London’. He would arrive for his weekly meetings ten minutes early and volunteer for extra work when head office had been particularly productive at dreaming up new miracles. He even attended heaven’s annual end of year party and helped clean up afterwards, whisking away screwed up napkins wadded with cake and stray bottle tops with a pleasant smile on his face, as if he was _lucky_ to have the privilege. 

If heaven knew it was merely a carefully orchestrated performance they hadn’t let on. Even Gabriel seemed to be slowly coming round to the idea that he truly had rediscovered the joys of heaven, had come to see their way was the best way, the only way.

“I have to say, Aziraphale, we’re impressed. Keep it up.” Gabriel stood up, shook Aziraphale’s hand with the vice-like grip he was renowned for and flashed him a winning smile. “We’ll make a seraphim of you yet. Merry Christmas.”

 _Smarmy git_. Aziraphale could almost hear Crowley hissing the words in his ear. He gave Gabriel a cheery wave and hot-footed it to the escalator, keen to return to solid ground and retreat to the sanctuary of his shop.

“Aziraphale.”

He heard Raphael’s voice, cautious and hurried, turned to find the archangel rushing over to him. They caught him by the escalator, glance shifting left to right to ensure they weren’t being watched.

“Raphael.” He nodded, taken aback by the unexpected relief at seeing a somewhat friendly face. “I wanted to talk you to actually, about…”

“The R+R programme?” Raphael’s silver eyebrows rose for just a second. They leaned in, slipping something into his pocket. Aziraphale felt the glossy paper glide against his fingers, hoped Raphael hadn’t felt his phone. “It’s all there, everything they’re going to announce. I know what you’re thinking, little one, but please be careful.”

“Always careful, you know me. Spontaneity is the devil’s thrill.” 

A crowd of angels swept past them and Aziraphale’s voice rose as he pasted on that bumbling, harmless mask that had kept his secret safe thus far, for the most part. He gave Raphael a small smile when the group had passed, got something halfway between curiosity and concern in return. He felt their eyes trained on his back as he retreated down the escalator, and then his feet touched solid ground and he could breathe again.

***

There was nothing quite like London at Christmastime. Aziraphale lowered his head against the winter wind and buried his hands in his pockets, taking a detour down to St James’s Park so he could walk and think and pine a little more. He spent a lot of time wandering down by the water, watching the ducks, waiting. He would see a figure in the distance sometimes, mistake them for Crowley, and for a second his heart would soar.

He fought against the crowds on Oxford Street, paused to take in the elaborate shop window displays that grew in decadence every year. It was something of his own tradition, to pace London’s busiest streets and see how the humans had tried to outdo the previous year’s efforts. That year he counted no less than twelve mechanical polar bears, though his favourite was the animatronic unicorn that shot iridescent glitter out of its horn when somebody inserted a two pound coin. He watched families usher children towards magical grottos, promising that _yes, this really is the real Santa,_ wondered what it would feel like to wake up on Christmas morning with somebody to share the day with, with no bigger concern than whether to eat breakfast or open presents first.

Christmas made it harder, somehow. He didn’t take Christmas off, never had. What he told Gabriel had been the truth, it really was his busiest day of the year. There were always lost pets to return home just as the first bucks fizz was being poured, that sold out toy miraculously appearing under the tree, the perfect engagement ring unboxed just after dinner. He picked a different place every year, spent the day wandering through the streets looking for the homes where his presence would make the biggest difference. That year he was staying close to the shop, tried not to stray too far from it at all any more unless work required him to travel, just in case Crowley dropped by under the guise of acquiring a book. It hadn’t happened, not yet, but it was almost Christmas and Aziraphale still had hope for a Christmas miracle of his own.

***

**February 2019. Bloom and Grow Garden Centre, London.**

“This one?" Aziraphale asked hopefully. “Will he work on a windowsill?”

“No, sir, this one is an outdoor plant too. What you’re looking for is a houseplant.” The shop assistant breathed a small sigh, taking the plant pot out of Aziraphale’s hands and putting it back on the shelf. It had been an arduous morning; first a tube strike appeared seemingly out of nowhere and now that strangely dressed man with sad eyes couldn’t seem to grasp the difference between a house plant and a garden plant, despite the fact he was standing under a very large sign explaining house plants could be found inside the shop.

“Ah, well that won’t do, will it? Garden space in Soho, have you ever heard of such a thing? It would take a miracle to…no, no better not.”

Aziraphale let his eyes rove over the sprawling beds of plants, waited for one to catch his eye. A small ornamental grass with red tips looked interesting, and he held it aloft to get a closer look.

“Sir, that won’t work on a windowsill either. They’re all outdoor plants out here, if you’ll just head inside we have a lovely selection of…”

“Oh!” Aziraphale cried, his eyes widening as the rest of the verdant offerings blurred and a spotlight seemed to shine on a bushy plant with scarlet veined leaves and the most wonderful blood red crested flower, delicate coils of velvety plumage that seemed to him the most beautiful thing he’d seen all day. The other shoppers brushed past it without a second glance, drawn to thorned roses and delicate water lilies. “This is the one. Madam, if you wouldn’t mind ringing me up.”

He carefully reached out to pick up the plant pot, cradled it in the nook of his arm as he made his way inside towards the till, feeling excitement bloom at the thought of getting his very first plant home and settling it into the shop.

“Sir, I thought you were looking for a house plant. You can’t keep that one inside, it needs to be outside.” The shop assistant trailed after him, already weary just two hours into her eight hour shift. There was always that _one_ customer every weekend; it looked like hers had arrived earlier than usual.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine, I’ll take good care of him.” Aziraphale placed the plant pot on the till and beamed at her.

“I’m sure you will, sir, but a plant like that doesn’t belong inside. Without the proper root depth it won’t work…”

“It _will_ work!” he snapped, then remembered where he was, in a garden centre in Hampstead and that this was a conversation about a plant, not a debate about the futility of overcoming heavenly warfare in the name of celestial soulmates. “I’m so sorry, my dear, forgive me. Difficult week. Difficult few months, really. Difficult century if you want to get into it.”

“Not a problem, sir.” She pasted on her best customer service smile and busied herself with scanning the plant pot, avoiding direct eye contact with Aziraphale, who sheepishly rolled up a ten pound note to slip into the charity box as penance.

Plant safe and sound in a cardboard box, Aziraphale carried it as if it was a precious newborn as he made his way back from Hampstead to Soho, tutting as humanly as any commuter as he endured a twenty minute delay at the station. _Now would be a wonderful time for the Bentley to come roaring around the corner_ , he thought, his mind filling the time at the station with memories of sitting in the passenger seat, complaining about Crowley’s music choices and reckless driving but secretly adoring the thrill of racing through London, guitars pounding from the speakers, demon by his side.

***

**April 2019. South Bank, London.**

Aziraphale was bored.

It dawned on him that it was the first time he had felt such listlessness, such utter apathy towards the world around him. As a principality it was part of the very core of his being that he should care deeply for the world and its inhabitants but he found himself trekking through the streets of London looking for any opportunity to fulfil that week’s work quota and realising just how devoid of meaning it all was without Crowley.

He would have given anything, heaven and Earth, for the demon to sidle up out of nowhere and ruin one of his miracles with mischief, to smile impishly as he waited for the inevitable scolding. He thought about all the time he had wasted on fear, worrying about going too fast, so busy fretting about whether or not the way he felt was wrong. How could it be? It was point of everything, wasn’t it? To find the thing that drove you, that made you whole, the thing you couldn’t say goodbye to.

How many decades had he squandered out of loyalty to heaven, how many centuries? He thought back to the first time he’d felt that flicker of desire, so long ago, how he’d squashed it deep deep down until it barely burned, a tiny ember that refused to be extinguished.

He even missed the mischief he would create when covering for Crowley. The odd temptation here and there: a closed lane on the motorway without a single workman in sight, a signalling failure delaying the busiest of commuter trains. It had been eight months since the Arrangement had come to an end and Aziraphale’s patience with playing the role of a perfect principality was wearing thin.

He used to think of heaven and feel himself puff up with pride. One of heaven’s angels, part of the Almighty’s blessed army, the ultimate force for good in the world. He shone with divine intentions, would have done whatever heaven asked without question, knew that their command could only ever be the right thing. Existence had been simpler then, before Crowley had sauntered into his life like a hurricane and destroyed every truth Aziraphale had always held dear.

Now when he thought of heaven he thought of Gabriel’s violet eyes glinting with perverse joy as he asked Aziraphale if he had had any company over Christmas, knowing very well that he had spent the day alone, working and waiting and hoping for that knock on the shop window that never arrived. He thought of Raphael’s quiet attempts to talk him out of something he hadn’t even figured out himself yet, of the way the angels jeered and slapped their knees when heaven had recently announced their plans for the Repentance and Rehabilitation Programme, now less than a year away. Now when he thought of heaven he thought of cold places, of cruelty for the sake of cruelty; there was no sanctuary to be found in heaven, not any more.

_The Party must confess their sins in totality, display genuine contrition, and pledge intent to eschew wickedness in all its forms._

Three simple rules, that was all that stood between Crowley and heaven. It seemed straight-forward enough, no loopholes, no hidden corners for a nasty twist to lurk in. Aziraphale had read and reread the sentence hundreds of times over the last four months, had tried to deconstruct it from every angle and find a way it could be weaponised against them.

He hadn’t told Crowley, not yet. He had to be sure there was no way Gabriel could hurt him, had to know that his place in heaven was guaranteed. He had thought about meeting with Raphael to explain things, to get their assurance that Crowley would be pardoned, but that involved putting his trust in heaven’s goodness and that bridge had been burned the moment he realised every one of them was willing to sacrifice humanity in the name of a millennia-old game with hell that nobody even remembered the rules of.

No, it was something he had to do alone.

He had almost told Crowley the other night. They had been on the phone for hours, voices soft and low as they looked out at the same stars, made promises to each other that neither one of them knew how to keep. It was the sweetest temptation, to tell him that everything would be okay, that they wouldn’t have to hide any more, wouldn’t have to endure that longing that seemed to permeate every fibre of his being.

A rumbling yowl pulled Aziraphale out of his reverie and he came to with a start. His deadline. _Damn_ , he thought, followed it with a quick apology to the Almighty in case She was listening. Force of habit, really. He was due to send Gabriel his latest report by midday, needed five miracles lined up ready to be signed off and filed away, confined forever to gather dust within the rectangular walls of Gabriel’s desk drawer.

Panic shivered through him like a tremor. The idea of a black mark against his name was out of the question, particularly as Gabriel had begun to murmur about how busy he was laying the foundations for the rapture, that it might be time for Raphael to take over supervising him again. He had to think of something that would pass as a miracle in the next ten minutes and he had to think quickly. Looking desperately for something, anything, he heard that same yowl again and turned to find two firemen leaning a ladder up against a tree on the opposite side of the road. Back arched and tail weaving in anger was a cat, clinging onto a branch fifteen feet above them.

 _That will do_. Not his finest work but he’d been personally responsible for a successful pharmaceutical breakthrough earlier in the week that should be enough to satisfy head office. He waited at the traffic lights, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet as he willed the lights to change. It was tempting to give them a spot of encouragement but he knew it wasn’t the time for frivolous miracles.

By the time he reached the scene the men had retrieved the furious tortoiseshell cat, who was swiping wildly in the air as he suffered the indignity of being winched down towards the ground. The second his paws made contact with the pavement he made off without as much as a grateful glance back at the two firemen, who began packing their equipment away as if it was all in a day’s work.

“Behold, a miracle!” Aziraphale declared, flinging one arm out to gesture towards the men, shouting at passersby to alert them to the Almighty’s glorious retrieval of feline from foliage. “God is good, praise Her!”

Droves of people quietly made a detour around the man who was demanding they praise God for creating the heavenly combination of firemen and ladders, hoping that if they ignored him he would eventually realise they were all godless heathens and move on.

Aziraphale cocked one foot up on a nearby bench, spread a report form across his knee and hurriedly scrawled down the details of the miraculous rescue of the nearby orphanage’s beloved cat and kittens from a towering canopy of leaves ninety feet in the air, how a crowd gathered round to fall to their knees and declare God’s greatness as they witnessed the unimaginable feat. He wondered if detailing the many faces in the crowd who were brought to tears as cat and kittens were reunited with solid ground was going a little far, but there was no time to dial things back.

As he turned to race across town to the escalator that would take him up to head office for his weekly progress meeting a smartly dressed man with alarming dark circles under his eyes nudged him with a large briefcase and leaned in conspiratorially.

“You want a miracle, mate? Try getting the 17.12 from Waterloo to run on time for a change.”


	18. The Weakness in Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley slammed the door to his apartment, sagged back against it and pressed the heels of his hands against closed eyes as he tried to calm the screaming in his chest. How could this happen now, after they had been so careful for so long?

******January 2019. Soho, London.**

Crowley was well aware that every happy memory in his consciousness was intrinsically linked to Aziraphale but he hadn’t realised quite how greyscale life would be without him. He wished the days would pass by in a haze, weeks blurring into one mindless stretch of life alone. That would have been preferable to the agonising slowness with which the hours passed, each day seeming to last for eternity before another lonely dawn arrived and brought with it nothing but that familiar yearning, wrapping itself around every corner of his mind like static he could never tune out.

Sometimes he walked to forget; mostly he walked to remember. Lately every road led to Soho, even when they didn’t. He had paused on the corner of Greek Street untold times over the past four months, leaned back against the wall of the Tudor-style pub opposite A.Z Fell and Co. and strained to catch a glimpse of Aziraphale through the windows. It didn’t help that half of the glass was obscured by piles of dusty books, and he made a mental note to give the place an organisational overhaul when... When? That was the question.

Usually he would find that familiar riddle of a closed sign hanging in the doorway now that Aziraphale was being sent further and further afield to prove his loyalty. That day though, for the first time in months, the sign was missing and the shop door open just the slightest unwelcoming crack.

He dared to stray a little closer to the shop, angled himself so he could see into one of the side windows. He saw actual customers, which was a surprise; two women carefully studying a Victorian medical journal, and a man, close to the window, thumbing through a collection of nineteenth century poetry. Crowley knew the book, remembered an evening spent in the shop many years ago, his legs swung over the side of his favourite chair, sipping wine as Aziraphale murmured Rossetti, Browning, Yeats to him, the book splayed open on his lap.

The man made his way towards the back of the shop, book in hand, leaned across the desk to speak to somebody. Crowley felt his breathing shift as he moved down the street to the next window and there, slumped across the desk and looking positively wracked with ennui, was Aziraphale. Ten paces and he could be in the shop, five more and they would be face to face, one final step and they would have plunged headfirst into something there was no turning back from. He was halfway across the road before he managed to get control of his senses and retreat back to a safe distance. 

He watched as Aziraphale frowned down at the book in the man’s hands, took it from him and protectively slid it under one arm. Crowley could see him shake his head, gesture wildly with one hand and, finally, shrug apologetically. The man emerged from the shop a moment later, confusion etched across his features as if he couldn’t quite comprehend the notion of a bookseller who would do anything to thwart a sale. _Part of the personal collection_ , the bookseller had said, _not sure how it got out here_. He had apologised, sort of, and sent the man on his way, suggesting he try the Waterstones around the corner.

As people pushed past him on the pavement, tutting at the obstruction, Crowley didn’t register their annoyance, didn’t register their presence at all. He leaned his head back against the whitewashed wall behind him, felt the swell in his heart as he watched Aziraphale flick through to a specific page and scan the words, a smile on his lips, melancholy in his eyes. It would be the Rossetti, Crowley knew, remembered their eyes locking across the candlelit room as Aziraphale had spoken the last words of the poem on that night when they were almost honest.

He saw Aziraphale stop midway down the page, saw recognition light up in his eyes as he mouthed a single word and turned towards the window. Crowley lowered his head and ducked down a side street, knew that if their eyes met there wouldn’t be any force in heaven or hell that could keep them away from each other.

As he headed away from the shop, celestial magnetism doing what it would to pull him back, he drew up alongside a wholly nondescript newsagents, found a golden retriever tied up outside, happy canine face turning this way and that to take in the maximum amount of strokes from passersby. Crowley smiled down at it as he walked past, extended a hand to feel the soft ruff of fur around its neck. In a flash the dog’s lips pulled back in a snarl of fear as it snapped at him, a guttural growl spilling out from its throat. It strained at the lead, front paws raising off the ground as Crowley hurried down the street, the barking only fading away when he turned the corner and lost himself in the crowd.

He knew it was reality, how the rest of the world saw him, and rightly so. The things he had done, the things he tried to forget, he knew he was truly lost. It was only Aziraphale, so effortlessly good, who had ever looked at him as anything other than a wretched thing, a demon cursed to slither on his belly through the muck and rot of the underworld. From Aziraphale he had only ever felt kindness that deepened, over the lifetimes, into friendship and then, quietly, into love so gentle it felt too fragile for that world.

_Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine’;_

_Both have the strength and both the length thereof,_

_Both of us, of the love which makes us one._

***

**March 2019. Head Office, Hell.**

“No.” The word came out so quietly it was barely more than a whisper. He repeated it once more, louder this time, anger creeping in at the edges as he fixed Beelzebub with a look of absolute hatred. “No. I won’t do this.”

Beelzebub matched his glare with an unbothered look of their own, as if they already knew his compliance was a foregone conclusion. Hell had a way of getting what they wanted, as Crowley knew only too well.

“Interesting, Crowley, that you thought it was a request.” The low buzz that served as Beelzebub’s voice echoed around the claggy, windowless room that they found themselves in, two spindly stools and a half rotten desk the only furniture. “You will go and you will do what the brief says. Now.”

“I said no. That’s Famine’s job.” Crowley rose to leave, heard the stool clatter against the damp ground behind him. In the time it took him to blink Beelzebub had risen and appeared in front of him, one clawed hand wrapping around his throat and forcing him back against the door.

“Famine has been indisposed ever since that little trick your boyfriend and the antichrist played last year. Yes, Crowley, we know all about your _secrets_ down here, demon. Daydreams of an _angel_. You should have asked, we would gladly have taken him for you.”

As Beelzebub leaned in, that broken-toothed mouth hovering a fraction from his own, Crowley felt blood on his tongue as his teeth sunk into the inside of his lip, anything to focus on other than the burning fury that was coursing through his body. He heard heavy breaths escape his lips, felt his fingers curl into a fist by his side as he imagined wrapping his fingers around Beelzebub’s thick neck and twisting tighter, tighter, tighter until he heard that satisfying crack.

“It wouldn’t be hard, you must know that, to find him. So trusting, those angels. Hellfire, Crowley, you know what it does, don’t you? Incredible, what pain a human vessel can withstand. One piece at a time, nice and slow, achingly slow, you could say.” The demon paused then, let their eyes close as if the idea of watching hellfire at work was a notion too delicious to rush. “There are some curious torture techniques on Earth, aren’t there? A few of them dreamed up by your own delightfully disturbed brain; there’s some sort of poetic justice there. We’ll save that face until the end, of course, burn those heavenly eyes away last of all. Now go, you have a long way to travel, and the next time you think about saying no to me, think about your angel instead.”

***

Crowley slammed the door to his apartment, sagged back against it and pressed the heels of his hands against closed eyes as he tried to calm the screaming in his chest. How could this happen now, after they had been so careful for so long? Had hell always known, he wondered, had they merely been biding their time? Or was it that day he had lingered for too long outside the shop, had that given them everything they needed to control him?

Hell had been testing his loyalty since that day in Tadfield, pushing him further and further into darkness until they could be nothing other than convinced of his undying allegiance. He had said yes to every job, every twisted temptation, every mundane cruelty, had left a trail of flashing blue lights in his wake, left lovers weeping over coffins, left shrapnel and destruction and _hate_ whenever they demanded it. He tried to leave himself, if he could, let his body carry out their work while his mind retreated, seeking refuge in the thousands of memories he had to hide in. And he carried the weight of all of it in the hope of, somehow, in time, building a better world. On the day that Armageddon failed they’d been given a chance to start again, Aziraphale had said, to build the world the way it should have always been.

His phone buzzed then, a quiet vibration in his pocket that reminded him the world was still turning.

**From: Angel**

Excellent news, my dear! Hint from Gabriel today that weekly meetings might be relaxed to monthly. The heat is off, somewhat. I saw a staggeringly big dog earlier, pictures to follow. 0:)

Before he had even reached the end of Aziraphale’s cheerfully sweet message Crowley knew he would be carrying out hell’s odious work that week. The thought of Aziraphale hidden away in the back of the shop, slowly tapping out a message and signing off with his new favourite emoji was the only motivation he needed to get the job done, to prove one last time that his allegiance to the underworld was beyond all doubt.

***

**May 2019. The British Library, London.**

Crowley had never been an avid reader. He had always been jealous of those who were, longed to clamber between the pages of a story and lose himself in another world. Dreamed of wrapping himself in favourite passages, recalling them time and time again and poring over hidden meanings, the words not said fulfilling just as important a role as those that were.

The words not said; it was a game he and Aziraphale had been playing for millennia, even though neither of them had ever formerly announced it. Sentences left trailing, declarations pulled up just shy of the crucial words.

 _Crowley, if you were here…_ That had been the one that really got him, the one he’d been replaying ad nauseam for the last week. Aziraphale had been away for ten days, working in Africa to ease a sweeping famine that had reared its head seemingly out of nowhere on the eastern coast. The job was relentless and Aziraphale was working himself to the point of exhaustion, pausing only to steal hushed phone calls when he needed to pull back from the brink of collapse.

His voice had been so timid, so quiet, that Crowley wanted nothing more than to scoop him up, hold him close and tell him to rest. The irony that they had gone straight back to cancelling out each other’s work as soon as the Arrangement had come to an end was not lost on him, but he hadn’t mentioned it to Aziraphale, didn’t want the angel to know the kind of work hell demanded of him.

It had been eight long months of laying low but there had always been a small comfort to take when Aziraphale was in London, was safely within reach. He felt him, in an abstract way, when he was close, just as he felt the emptiness when he was gone, which was how Crowley found himself exploring the aisles of the British Library, surrounding himself with books and finding something of Aziraphale in every one of the titles.

They were a unique sort of magic, those hallowed halls filled with other worlds. Crowley wondered if that reverence was how humans felt when they stepped inside a church, a quiet peace that was difficult to place, it just _was_. He had the same feeling in Aziraphale’s shop, loved leafing through the shelves to see what the latest acquisitions were, would pick an old favourite off of a towering stack and relax in the back room while Aziraphale read to him after dinner.

***

Crowley hadn’t planned on visiting the shop, he truly hadn’t. Before he left for Africa Aziraphale had told him to come and go as he pleased, just in case he wanted to borrow any books. For six thousand years the angel had been trying to seduce the demon to the delights of books, hadn’t realised he was content to hear them come to life through Aziraphale’s voice.

He had planned to go back to the apartment after visiting the library, to maybe catch up on sleep and wile away the days until his next work brief came through. After Africa the work had started to slow down, hell satisfied for the time being that he could be trusted to roam on a longer leash. Their attention had turned to the rapture instead, knowing the opportunities it would bring afterwards. Rumours had begun to circulate, whispers of Satan’s lofty ideas for the world after heaven had hoisted the metaphorical ladder for the last time.

Even so, he found himself standing outside A.Z. Fell and Co., hovering his hand over the lock and glancing over his shoulder before slipping inside. He stood in the doorway for a moment, breathed in the scent and felt some of the guilt he had been hauling around for months begin to ebb away. It always had that effect on him, coming into Aziraphale’s space. Even without him in it there was an imprint of his goodness within the walls, the feeling of coming home after a long stay away.

He had been in the shop countless times since Aziraphale acquired it but that was only the second time he’d been there unaccompanied. The first was that day the year before, the worst day, when he found the shop on fire and no trace of Aziraphale there, no golden threads of hope to cling to.

Aziraphale had been upbeat in recent weeks, almost cheery, had told him of the good news that the Almighty needed Gabriel to play a more active role in laying the foundations for the rapture, the even better news that Raphael was confirmed to be taking the reins again in a few short weeks. It filled Crowley with a swell of emotion, hearing Aziraphale speak about Raphael, the archangel who had showed him such kindness in the early days, who had shaped him into everything he might have been. He still remembered the look of horror on their face when Gabriel declared the Fallen's punishment, their eyes scanning the crowd of rebellious angels from one particular pair. _I wish I could tell you,_ Crowley thought,  _I wish I could tell you what happened to them after we fell but I never saw them again, not after that day_.

There was something about being in the final stretch that made him yearn for Aziraphale all the more. To be within touching distance and have only those last lonely weeks to limp through, it tortured and thrilled him. He walked through the shop, fingertips gathering dust as he ran his hands across the artfully chaotic bookshelves, imagining how it would feel to stroll in there on a busy Saturday, to take Aziraphale by the hand and slip into the back room for a few breathless moments, leaving as easily as he came in, cheeks flushed and lips bee-stung.

Acutely sensitive to changes in the places where he felt most comfortable, Crowley clocked the plant as soon as he made his way into the back room. Perched on the windowsill in a shining onyx pot there was a small cockscomb plant, flower ruby red and coiled, an ugly thing, as if it could judder to life and strike at any time. Crowley raised an eyebrow as he picked up the pot, laid the back of one finger across the soil to check it wasn’t too wet. _Always water from below, angel_. He noticed the saucer it was standing in, nodded approvingly at the idea of Aziraphale taking some of his meticulous lessons in plant parenting to heart. As he popped the plant back on the saucer he saw the square chalkboard label pushed neatly into the soil, felt himself melt when he saw the crudely drawn horned emoticon grinning mischievously back at him.

“Oh, angel,” he murmured the words aloud, pictured Aziraphale knitting his brows together with absolute focus as he drew the chalk devil on the label, probably holding his phone in one hand so he could copy exactly what was on the screen. Aziraphale was the most supremely talented being Crowley had ever met but there were two skills that eluded him: magic and art.

Loathe to leave the angel’s space right away, Crowley made himself a cup of tea and nestled back in Aziraphale’s chair, finding the comforting scent drape over him like the softest blanket. He closed his eyes, thinking of all the nights they’d spent in there, wine-drunk and rambling, leaping from topic to topic in a heartbeat, words and ideas tumbling out of their mouths faster than either of them could follow. He thought of quiet winter evenings lit by the glow of the fire, Aziraphale with his poetry books, Crowley curled up halfway between sleep and waking, the angel’s gentle voice soothing his soul. He thought of the arguments too, those nights of blazing rows over morality that had ended with the two of them toe to toe, Crowley glowering down, fingers twitching by his side as he flip-flopped between wanting to throttle him and wanting to press his lips against Aziraphale’s, to see what would happen if he knocked the world off-kilter in the name of nothing other than selfish desire.

He spotted Aziraphale’s favourite cup empty on the desk next to an open book, the remnants of his last night in the shop. Crowley picked it up to take up to the kitchen, thought he’d tidy up a bit before the angel got back a few days later, then paused when he spotted the crescent curve of Aziraphale’s lip tea-stained onto the rim of the cup. He ran his thumb over the imprint, thought of Aziraphale’s hands curved around the white china, his lips pressed to its smooth surface as he peered over to read the next line of his book. Almost knocked back by the weight of longing for him, Crowley sat back down in the chair, found himself staring at the angel wing handle of the mug as he whispered one word into the silence.

“Enough.”

Heaven and hell were the only reason for their self-imposed separation, and what did heaven and hell matter any more? If Armageddon had taught him anything it was that there wasn’t a single guarantee that tomorrow would come, that nobody knew what each new day would bring, not even the holiest angels or the most cursed demons. The only time that they were promised was the present moment and Crowley was tired. He was tired of running, tired of trying to outpace the truth. He’d been running for six thousand years and what difference had it made? Not a jot.

 _Enough_.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, typed the words he had been typing and deleting for months, and pressed _Send_ before he had the chance to lose his nerve.

**To: Angel**

I don’t know how to be without you, angel. The bandstand, next Saturday, midday.

…

P.S. Plant’s a handsome devil, isn’t he?

…

P.P.S. I miss you.


	19. Just Like Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honesty and bravery, that was what they had been dancing around for all of those years. It had only taken one of them to take the first terrifying step towards truth, to say 'we’re wasting time, I need you'.

******June 2019. Battersea Park, London.**

“Calm down, old boy,” Aziraphale whispered as he broke into a jog, feet working overtime to deliver him to the bandstand not a moment after the clock struck midday.

He hadn’t been able to settle since he’d received Crowley’s message the previous week, had channelled that excited energy into his work and received a glowing report from heaven when they’d reviewed his results. He took great pleasure in imagining Gabriel’s face if he ever discovered exactly why Aziraphale had attended his work with such new-found vigour.

The Almighty Herself could have split the sky to warn Aziraphale away and he would have politely thanked Her for Her opinion and continued on towards the bandstand. Nine agonising months had gone by and Aziraphale was ready to throw himself into Crowley’s arms and never let go.

Funny, Aziraphale thought, how simple the recipe for happiness was when it came down to it, how complicated they had made it seem. Honesty and bravery, that was what they had been dancing around for all of these years. It had only taken one of them to take the first terrifying step towards truth, to say _we’re wasting time, I need_ you. Of course it would be Crowley, the most startlingly fearless being he had ever known. Aziraphale had always been happy to be swept up in his forcefield, to marvel at the way he lurched through life without a plan, would do things just because. _Live a little, angel_ , he would always say. After six thousand years, maybe it was time to finally listen.

He’d been pacing the shop since dawn, had been ready to leave since the early hours of the morning, hair washed with the shampoo Crowley had compliment the smell of once, a dash of cologne on each side of his jaw, trademark cream coat dry cleaned and pressed. It was a curious new feeling, to dress for the day with desire in mind. He had considered wearing something else, had heard _jeans_ were the thing now, but his old comforts gave him confidence and, besides, he had sworn off pretending he was anything other than exactly who he was, waistcoat and all.

By the time he rounded the corner that led up to the bandstand he had near enough broken into a run, couldn’t hold his excitement back any longer. When he skipped up the steps to find the bandstand empty he stopped, felt his anticipation drain away, turned in a neat circle in case he’d missed Crowley’s presence, as if he would have been anything other than drawn straight to him. There, in the opposite corner, in the exact spot he had stood almost a year ago when he had told Crowley it was over, lay a conical wrap of brown paper.

Aziraphale felt his cheeks lift above a wide smile as he picked up the flowers, brought them close and breathed in their sweet scent. Honeysuckle, masses of it, tumbling out of the paper bouquet in swathes of white, pink, and pale orange. A card was nestled inside and he scanned the words desperately, his joyful laughter echoing around the empty bandstand as he read Crowley’s chicken scratch scrawl.

_Angel, do you remember the last time we were here? I asked you to run away with me. I’ll ask you again, and again, and maybe one day you’ll say yes. Until then, I hope these show you a fraction of my devotion (change their water twice a week). Yours, always._

Aziraphale swung the flowers in one hand as he strolled home, face upturned towards the sunshine as he beamed at everybody who passed him, felt that infectious wave of good feeling that accompanied every sunny day in London.

 _Today marks the first day of everything else_ , he thought to himself, looking down at the pretty spray of flowers. _Devotion_. That had been the word he had found when he searched for the meaning of honeysuckle on his phone, the same word Crowley had used in the card. Did he have any idea, Aziraphale wondered, that his devotion had never been one-sided?

Aziraphale’s thoughts turned to the last time the two of them had stood in the bandstand, the look on Crowley’s face when he had rejected him out of fear. It was only ever out of fear. He had seen Crowley’s defences wall up between them, his eyes turn cold as he lingered, for a moment, and then left Aziraphale alone.

The memory of that day left him very cross with himself, as he so often was when he thought about the past. He sighed, thinking about all the times he had said no, when all he had ever wanted to say was yes. It was only on the night when Armageddon failed that he had, finally, quietly voiced his truth, told Crowley he would follow him anywhere while the two of them lay cheek to cheek on the sofa. That night had been transformative, the catalyst that had set everything else in motion and led them there, to the beginning of that new, endlessly overdue chapter.

By the time Aziraphale returned to the shop he felt the first flourishes of an idea winding their way around his brain. After he had finished carefully arranging the honeysuckle in a vase on his desk the idea had taken root and he pulled a pen from his top drawer. Trust Crowley, he thought, the only one smart enough to outfox heaven and hell, to find a way for them to meet without actually _meeting._

Behind him, the little plant on the windowsill bloomed.

***

It was hotter than hell inside Crowley’s apartment. Contrary to popular belief, hell could actually get a bit nippy at times, being located in the damp basement all those leagues below heaven. Heaven was more likely to be sweltering than hell, convection and all that. Crowley had spent far too long trying to explain it to other demons in the past, never understood why their eyes glazed over before he finished his hypothesis.

Fundamental misunderstandings about heaven and hell’s ambient temperatures aside, the interior of Crowley’s apartment was approaching hellfire proportions, and hellfire _was_ scorching indeed. He was sprawled on the sofa like a sweaty starfish, one leg splayed on the sofa cushions and the other resting on the coffee table, a bottle of water he had just retrieved from the freezer was resting across his bare chest and he gave the floor fan in front of him a brief nod to kick it up a notch.

He liked heatwaves as much as the next Londoner. As in, he enjoyed the baking sunshine for the first day, cursed the sun by the second, and promptly longed for it all over again when the cooler temperatures returned.

Flicking lazily through his phone as he contemplated dinner, he found himself scrolling back through his message chain with Aziraphale to find the photo the angel had sent the week before after he’d found the flowers in the bandstand.

 _Behold, my first selfie!_ was the text that had accompanied the picture, a juddering blur that only identified itself as Aziraphale because of the abundance of cream clothing.

Crowley ran one finger across the screen, smiled to himself as he read through the string of messages Aziraphale had sent him since that day, providing morning and evening updates on how the honeysuckle was doing. Flourishing, apparently.

A knock at the door pulled him away from his phone. He froze, then felt a rush of euphoria as he realised there was only one being who could have bypassed the intercom. Crowley sprang to his feet, fluffed the sofa cushions and looked around at the mess strewn across the coffee table. It had been too hot to tidy up, too hot to do much other than lay around fanning himself, eat convenience food, and text Aziraphale to complain about the weather. He swept the empty food packets into the bin with one hand and legged it to the bedroom in search of a shirt.

“One minute!” he yelled, tugging a black t-shirt over his head, assumed that swinging the door open shirtless and sweaty might constitute ‘going too fast’, could send Aziraphale heading for the hills again.

He dithered in the hallway, ran his hands through his hair once, twice, three times for luck, and adopted an artfully dishevelled pose as he opened the door. There was nobody there. Crowley sighed, made a mental note to give the kids who lived two doors down a good hard glare over the rim of his sunglasses when they next stared at him, loudly whispering to their parents about _the snake man, look!_

He almost missed the cream wicker hamper that had been placed outside his door. As he leaned forward to pick it up the unmistakeable scent of Aziraphale’s cologne lingered in the air and made his head swim. He’d been _so_ close. _That cheery little bastard_ , Crowley thought, feeling the cogs in his mind begin to turn as he started dreaming up a suitably maddening response.

Kicking the door closed behind him, he carried the basket through to the living room and laid it down on the table, sitting back on the sofa and grinning in anticipation. He flicked the gold clasp open, thinking how utterly Aziraphale it was to deliver a surprise in a wholly on-brand picnic basket, that meticulous attention to detail never wavering for a moment.

Inside he found a slightly warm bunch of yellow tulips, happy flowers in full bloom, bound together with a twirl of gold ribbon. As he pulled them out of the hamper the reason for their temperature became apparent and he dissolved into laughter, shaking his head as he counted six cartons of crispy McDonald’s fries. Popping a chip into his mouth, he leaned back and slid the card out of the gold envelope that had been slipped in alongside the flowers.

_One box for every millennium I spent too scared to tell you the truth. You’ve always been so patient with me, just hold on for a few more days, my love. Yours, beyond reason._


	20. Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Aziraphale thought back, many years later, to the precise moment when he had gone from merely enjoying Crowley’s company to being willing to fight heaven and hell just to protect him from everything rotten in the world, that was it.

******July 2019. Sushi Hayashi, London.**

“Ah, good evening, Mr Fell. May I take your coat?”

Aziraphale had eaten at Sushi Hayashi many times before; in fact, it was one of his and Crowley’s alternative rendezvous points. It had become something of a tradition for them to meet there and toss a coin to decide who would be carrying out that month’s work. The nights usually ended with Crowley swaying home after too much sake and Aziraphale clutching his stomach after too much sushi, but that night Aziraphale would be dining alone.

Aziraphale passed the manager his coat, smoothed down his waistcoat and scanned the room for Crowley. He knew he wouldn’t be there, the teasing seemed to play an intrinsic part of that romp through their memories, but still, he couldn’t help but hope he would find Crowley’s rakish outline slumped over a table, sake in hand.

“If you’ll come with me, Mr Fell, you will be having dinner tonight in a private room.”

The manager led Aziraphale through the restaurant, other diners turning to watch as he was quietly ushered into one of the private rooms at the back of the restaurant. It had been a game that they used to play, to make up the back stories of the diners in the private rooms. Crowley always liked to imagine them as secret service agents, much like he did the regulars they’d see in St James’s Park. Aziraphale took a more romantic approach, imagining clandestine dinners away from prying eyes, fingers entwined under the table.

The room was cosy, just enough space for a mahogany table for two, high-backed cream chairs tucked neatly underneath. Silk paintings hung on the walls and golden globes for light shades were suspended over the table, casting a spotlight over each of the two place settings.

“Please make yourself comfortable, the first course will be arriving in a moment.”

Left alone to collect his thoughts, Aziraphale settled himself in one of the chairs and smiled as he saw the flowers laid across the second place setting. He pulled them close, caught the sweet scent of freshly cut peaches, admired the delicate white plumeria flowers, yellow-throated, standing out from dark green foliage. They were beautiful and fragile, and the imagery wasn’t lost on him. He poked into the bouquet to find the card, was about to open it when the door swung open and the waiter arrived with his first course, a stack of sticky crab and ginger rolls.

Aziraphale’s appetite began to flag somewhere around the seventh plate. He knew he should stop, should politely refuse any further courses, but it tasted too good to say no to. He was determined to soldier on, to keep enjoying the food until Crowley’s carefully planned selection came to an end. How many hours must he have spent watching Aziraphale try every conceivable way to consume raw fish over the years? If anybody knew his taste, it was Crowley.

By the time plate number ten arrived, Aziraphale was fairly sure he was going to have to get a taxi home, couldn’t face walking, couldn’t face doing anything other than pour himself into his chair and sip water until the swell in his stomach started to subside.

“If I may, how many courses are left after this one?” Aziraphale asked politely, as he handed over another empty plate. “Absolutely top notch, as always, just starting to get a little bit on the full side, you see.”

“Sir, the gentleman who arranged your meal requested that we keep bringing plates until you had eaten your fill.”

“Did he now?” Aziraphale closed his eyes, biting back a smirk. “Well, I have certainly eaten my fill. And everybody else’s, I should imagine. That was quite excellent, thank you.”

As the waiter bustled out with the empty plate in his hands, Aziraphale finally opened Crowley’s card.

_To make up for the night you missed out on temaki. Hope you’re hungry. Yours, unconditionally._

***

Aziraphale gently lowered himself into his chair, the ache in his stomach a long while from ebbing away. Too much sushi. Before that night he hadn’t known such a thing existed but he was ten plates wiser and, well, ten plates wider, come to think of it.

With great exertion he retrieved his phone from his pocket and arduously typed out a message to Crowley. He had spent many untold hours writing him messages over the last year but he still found himself hitting the wrong key more often than not, had been locked in a year-long experiment to determine whether autocorrect was a blessing or a curse.

You think you’re funny, don’t you? 0:)

Crowley’s response came a heartbeat later, faux-innocence dripping from the message as if he had sweetly whispered the words directly into Aziraphale’s ear.

Don’t know what in the world you mean, angel. Nice dinner? Out of interest, how many plates did you get through in the end?

…

TEN. 0>:(

***

**July 2019. Kew Gardens, Richmond.**

It was a bright balmy day in Richmond and Crowley whistled to himself as he clicked his fingers to lock the Bentley and strode across the car park, squinting up at the sunshine. _This might just be the perfect day_ , he thought, though hailstones could have been raining down on him and he would have declared it the perfect day.

Two days previously had brought word of the news they had been waiting on for so many months; Gabriel had been officially transferred out of management and back to the Almighty’s side as the yawningly titled Rapture Co-Ordinator, meanwhile Crowley hadn’t seen hide nor fly of Beelzebub in weeks, not since they’d been summoned back to Satan’s side for devilish work he had no interest in knowing anything about. For the time being, at least, it appeared heaven and hell’s laser focus on them had been withdrawn.

Aziraphale’s message had been delightfully enticing when it had arrived the morning after the bottomless sushi debacle. 

Kew Gardens, Thursday. Await further instructions when you arrive. 0:)

Crowley had turned the possibilities over and over in his mind for the last week, hadn’t been able to come to any conclusion other than spending the day surrounded by plants on a mysterious quest set by his beloved sounded _pretty_ perfect.

Okay, angel. I’m here. Where to first?

Aziraphale’s response had been immediate, directing him to the Mediterranean Garden. As Crowley wandered the gently curving paths that weaved their way through the labyrinthine gardens, he found his thoughts drifting, as they often did, to plants. His fascination with all things verdant had always baffled his peers, both heavenly and hellish. Even back before the Fall, in the early years, the angels had merely smiled politely and raised their eyebrows as he waxed lyrical about whatever new species had been dreamed up that day.

Plants were simple, cutting right to the core of relationships: give them the right conditions to exist in and they rewarded you with clean air, give them a little more TLC and they would flourish beautifully, neglect them and they would wither away little by little. He liked to think of plants as a great gift to humanity, living lessons in selflessness and patience.

The Mediterranean Garden was in full bloom, the intoxicating scent of the Italian coast carrying on the gentle breeze. Crowley closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, felt for a second as if he could have been back in Pompeii, in that little stone house he had loved so dearly, that held so many precious memories.

They’d spent plenty of time in Italy over the years. Tense, most of it, in the beginning, their acquaintance still somewhat awkward. Same sector workers, really, who happened to cross paths every few hundred years and got on all right, despite representing rival companies. As time went by, of course, their allegiance shifted to the world, to each other, but Rome was where Crowley always felt they tiptoed from interested strangers to friends, and then, of course, there had been Pompeii.

When Aziraphale had sent him off to Kew, he had told him he would find a gift in each one of the locations around the gardens, had then gone on to send six further messages explaining how treasure hunts worked and had finished with a potted history of the phrase _treasure hunt_ and how it came to be. Crowley hadn’t had the heart to point out he’d come across the phrase once or twice before, had played along instead and marvelled at the phrase’s origins.

After rifling for far too long under a sprawl of lavender, knees taking an indignant bath in dust and dried leaves, Crowley eventually found the brown paper package leaning obviously against a nearby cluster of uniformly upright Italian cypress trees. He lifted the small bouquet of indigo delphiniums up from the ground, found a card tied to them with a thin rope of golden ribbon.

_For the first time you let me tempt you._

Aziraphale had always proudly referred to it as his first temptation, that day in Rome when he took  Crowley out to dinner to try oysters. He’d hated them, of course, choked down three to be sure, egged on by Aziraphale’s eager eyes watching for his reaction. He’d never found the right time to tell the angel that he’d rather go toe to toe with Gabriel than eat another one, had found himself forcing them down every few hundred years when the two of them happened to cross paths in Italy and Aziraphale brightly reminded him _when in Rome_.

In the Temperate House, glass roof curving above the thousands of plants, Crowley found a bouquet nestled underneath a whorl heath, a deep pink heather that had been thought extinct for tens of years, had been brought back from the brink and was set to be reintroduced to the wild.

Delphiniums again, pink that time, with a card written in Aziraphale’s flowing handwriting, words glittering hopefully in the sun.

_For all the things brave enough to fight against the odds._

Next came Aziraphale’s instructions to head to the Waterlily House, where Crowley found himself staring into a thickly veined lily pad so large it defied logic, floating atop the inky black water as if it had every right to be there. _Up to two metres wide_ , Aziraphale had sent along with his instructions, _an absolute wonder!_

The information board next to the pond told him that water lilies were first discovered in Bolivia, nodded to himself as he understood why Aziraphale had sent him there. So very long ago, before either of them settled in London, when Adam Young was just a twinkle in Satan’s eye, the two of them had met in Bolivia to forever change the course of their shared history. Neutral ground, Crowley had suggested.

_For the Arrangement, which taught us the titles angel and demon are inconsequential._

***

**Many Years Ago. Bolivia.**

Crowley was late. He often was. It wouldn’t ordinarily have been a cause for concern but Aziraphale had spent the last three months convincing himself that Crowley wasn’t going to show up, despite that infernal notion being entirely his idea. _The Arrangement,_ he called it. It was madness as far as Aziraphale was concerned, a surefire way to whip up the wrath of heaven and hell combined. And yet, there he was, waiting in a suitably neutral location.

Aziraphale paced to and fro across the salt flats, never straying far from the exact spot where they’d decided to meet. Out there they wouldn’t be spotted, nothing to hear them but those dry hexagonal salt pans stretching out for miles in every direction like an infinite beehive.

“Been waiting long? Bit far flung, isn't it, Bolivia?”

Aziraphale jumped at the sound of a voice cutting through the silence, whipped around to find Crowley standing there, shrouded in black and slouching casually, as if he wasn’t two hours late.

“I thought you might have changed your mind.”

Crowley looked him up and down, smiled wickedly, eyes glowing in the fading sunset. “Get to see you fret _and_ halve my workload in one go? Why would I change my mind?”

Aziraphale took a step towards him, lowered his voice out of habit. Those days it always seemed as though he was taking precautions where Crowley was concerned. There had been remarks in his last review about why he hadn’t yet vanquished hell’s earthly emissary. “You know this will change everything, don’t you?”

Crowley shrugged, opened his hands wide as if he couldn’t fathom why Aziraphale was so edgy. “We've already changed everything, angel. I’m just here for an easy ride. Shall we?”

It was simple enough, the miracle Crowley had been tasked with. A young man, a rare illness that had stupefied doctors, a miraculous medical breakthrough; the sort of thing Aziraphale did on a daily basis. He had three days to get to London, four to complete the work. Meanwhile, Aziraphale was due to head to Barcelona, said he may as well take on Crowley’s assignment in Jerez at the same time. No point both of them crossing paths when they didn’t need to, after all, not good for them to be seen together too often.

“Might arouse suspicion,” Aziraphale said, following the words with a nervous laugh.

“Suspicion of what?” Crowley asked, eyebrow arched, smirk barely suppressed.

Hands wringing, Aziraphale looked down at the baked earth, across at the endless stretch of white, anywhere that didn’t involve meeting Crowley’s curious eyes. “Oh…you know.”

“Not sure I follow, angel. What on earth could heaven and hell find suspicious about _us_?”

“You _know_ what I mean,” Aziraphale hissed, speaking directly to Crowley’s shoes, frowning as he racked his brain for a new topic of conversation. “You’ll let me know when the work is done?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley raised one hand and turned to leave, striding away from Aziraphale, who stood and watched him go without a word.

Aziraphale felt his heart thunder in his chest, studied the sharp curve of Crowley’s shoulders as he walked further and further into the night. So, he had finally given in. Was it a mistake, he wondered, trusting a demon? It was close to the first thing you learned as an angel, heaven constitutes good, hell constitutes bad. Demons were failed angels, were never to be trusted under any circumstances, their very existence built on lies and deceit.

Crowley _was_ a demon. One of the Fallen, an angel who turned his back on heaven and paid the ultimate price. By all rights they should be sworn enemies, should feel rage and the burning desire to destroy each other whenever they crossed paths, so why were they so content to spend their time together having lunch and chatting about the years they had spent apart? In Crowley he had never seen evil or deceit. He was mischievous, yes, maddening at times, but he was funny, too, intelligent, endlessly patient when Aziraphale spent hours dithering about where they should go for lunch. There was nothing demonic about his friend with the soft smile and far off look he sometimes got when they said goodbye to each other. And Crowley had been right, though Aziraphale barely dared to disappear into the memory, they already _had_ changed everything once before. 

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice, calling out to him in the darkness. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” he replied, taking a step towards him. “Everything all right?”

Crowley came pacing back towards him, one hand running through his hair, his expression wildly uncomfortable. “Look, angel, I know this whole thing was my idea but…but what if I can’t do it? Good, I mean. I haven’t done anything good since…you know, _before_.”

When Aziraphale thought back, many years later, to the precise moment when he had gone from merely enjoying Crowley’s company to being willing to fight heaven and hell just to protect him from everything rotten in the world, that was it.

He stood there in the almost-darkness, silhouetted against the evening sky streaked with red and purple, emotion twisting his features into something Aziraphale barely recognised. He was _scared_ , the angel realised, he was scared of failing, of not being able to do good. It was a deep fear, insidious and unvoiced, that maybe heaven had taken the ability from him when he fell.

“I think, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, reaching out to take his hand, feeling a flush of something stir within him, “that you’ll be surprised at the good one fallen angel can do.”

***

**July 2019. Kew Gardens, Richmond.**

It was a miracle, some might have said, that Crowley found himself the only visitor to climb the Treetop Walkway. On a sunny July weekend the meandering treetop bridge would usually be teeming with people posing for selfies with the canopy of trees as a worthy background. That day, though, tourists looked up at the walkway, contemplated it for a moment, then walked away in confusion as if they couldn’t quite remember where they’d planned on visiting next.

Mercifully alone, Crowley slid his sunglasses into his pocket, blinked twice, slowly, let his eyes adjust to the bright light. As the trees came into focus, great swathes of greenery as far as he could see, he felt his breath catch in his throat. It was beautiful, beyond comprehension, and achingly familiar.

Had Aziraphale known when he sent him his final instructions of the day? He couldn’t have. It was a dear secret he kept locked tight against his chest, the only thing he had ever been proud of.

 _Make something beautiful, angel_ , the Almighty had said to him, after the Earth had burst into existence, a blank canvas for heaven's angels to paint. By the time Crowley had turned to ask what he should make She had gone, leaving nothing but permission behind.

He pulled the first tree into being that day, hands moulding the strong trunk, wrapping it in bark as if it was the most precious gift he could think to give the world, fingers stroking the tip of each branch until leaves sprang forth. The years passed and the first forest was born, Crowley shaping each tree, every leaf, until they rooted proudly in the first corner of the globe. It was quieter then, the Almighty tasking the angels to prepare everything before the first humans arrived. While Raphael ushered in the oceans, Uriel sculpted the mountains, and Crowley travelled the barren earth leaving the first life, the forests, in his wake.

On the day he fell, head held high as Gabriel announced the sentence for curiosity was exile beyond eternity, he thought only of his forests. Who would keep them safe, he wondered? Who would help them grow tall and green and strong if he wasn’t around to take care of them? It was the first thing he did when he returned to Earth, coiled his serpentine body around the apple tree, the one the Almighty declared untouchable, felt its heat and life radiate through him. When every other entity in existence turned away from him, recoiled in fear, the trees still flourished under his touch. There was hope, then, in the forests.

In the eastern corner of the treetop walkway Crowley found Aziraphale’s final gift, though he had already given him the most precious thing of all: the memory of who he was before, a reminder of the love he had once been capable of. Still could be, perhaps. Crowley stood high above the treetops, breathless with the echo from the past, read Aziraphale’s sweet words and looked out across the life he had created, still persisting after all of those years.

_For all the beauty you brought to their world, and mine. Yours, to the end of everything._


	21. Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley had asked him what he really wanted, if he set duty and heaven aside. Aziraphale had known his answer before Crowley had finished asking the question, had always known, if he was honest.

******July 2019. St James’s Park, London.**

Crowley was always late. It was a key feature of his character, as he told Aziraphale whenever the angel scolded him for his poor time-keeping. Couldn’t help it. He could leave the apartment with half an hour to spare and still stroll up to their meeting point twenty minutes late. Today, though, he was going to arrive exactly when he was supposed to.

Nervous energy coiled in his legs as he entered the park, heart hopeful and full as he cradled the flowers in one arm and let the other swing by his side. Globe amaranth for the bouquet this time, _immortal love,_ as if any singular definition would be able to sum up the entirety of what they had spent eternity building, stone by stone, glance by glance.

He thought of Aziraphale’s sleepy voice tumbling through the phone when they had spoken late the previous night after he had returned from Kew, unable keep his excitement about the day to himself. He thought of how he had closed his eyes, rested the phone on his chest and tried with every fibre of his being to imagine that the angel was there with him.

“I’m supposed to be in Greece next week,” Aziraphale had said through a yawn, looking out the window at the moon hanging low and fat in the sky, his little plant curled in on itself on the windowsill as it rested. “Raphael mentioned I might want to…”

“Forget what they want, angel,” had come Crowley’s interjection, voice buzzing with energy after his day of reminiscing. “For once, forget duty, forget supposed to. What do _you_ want?”

The sound of Aziraphale clearing his throat filtered through the phone, for a second it seemed as though he was going to speak, but then there was only silence.

Crowley sighed, longing hanging heavily in his voice. “This is torture.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” When Aziraphale’s voice came it was so soft Crowley thought he might have misheard him. But then, a heartbeat later, the most beautiful word he had ever heard. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

It hadn’t given him much time. He’d wanted to plan something spectacular for the moment Aziraphale saw him again, something to show the angel how he truly felt, what this meant to him. How could he begin to condense their history into a single sentence? How to explain that Aziraphale had been the focal point in his life since that day in Eden, the first day he had escaped hell, sent to the earth to lead the humans astray? He hadn’t been very good at that, except the once, better at leading angels astray as it turned out. Aziraphale had been his moral barometer from that day, the idea of seeing him again was the anchor that kept him from succumbing to hell’s grip. He had seen the way the other Fallen had had their spirits broken, had staggered out broken and lost and eternally empty.

He reached the duck pond early. Hunkering down for the agonising wait, arms draped over the railings, he murmured to the ducks, “what do you think, guys, is it going to be all right?”

In the end there had been no time for extravagance, it had come down to the flowers, and Crowley himself. He just hoped he was enough after all this time.

***

Aziraphale was frantic. Every possible disaster scenario ran through his mind as he approached the park. What if he had read the signals wrong this whole time? What if it was a trap and Gabriel was there waiting for him, smile razor sharp with vindication? What if the whole thing was a six thousand year double cross dreamed up by hell? How was it possible that everything was going to work out the way he’d dreamed? After the last year of torment it seemed inconceivable.

He thought of how liberating it had been the night before, to throw caution to the wind for _once_ , to make the first move. It had been the most soul-baringly honest thing he had ever done, to speak his desire out loud. When it was just the two of them, alone in their world, it was easier to be brave. There was no hiding now, not any more.

Crowley had asked him what he really wanted, if he set duty and heaven aside. Aziraphale had known his answer before Crowley had finished asking the question, had always known, if he was honest.

Then Aziraphale saw him. Early, for the first time ever, leaning over the railings by the duck pond, fidgeting with the flower bouquet he was holding. The angle of his jaw, clenched as it always was when he was on edge, dark glasses obscuring those eyes, the mess of scarlet hair he longed to feel under his fingers; he was perfect. He always had been.

Suddenly the angel was running down the gentle slope towards the duck pond, all notions of heaven and hell abandoned, letting his feet carry him back home.

Crowley heard Aziraphale before he saw him, one word rising over the background din of the busypark.

“Crowley!”

He turned towards the sound and everything else disappeared, all that was left was Aziraphale racing towards him, a blur of white and cream, flower bouquet dangling from one hand, a beaming smile on his face.

And then Crowley was running too, fuelled by the absolute need to hold his angel and never let him go, to touch his skin and know that he was real. He didn’t have time to think, all he knew was that there was distance between them that needed to be closed.

He was almost knocked back by the force of Aziraphale colliding into him as he flung his arms around the demon’s shoulders and pulled him so close he could barely breathe. He buried his head in Crowley’s neck and the demon could feel his skin, warm against his own, and knew then that he was real, that this was real, that they had really made it, in spite of everything. Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley’s jaw, his cheek, his temple, and all Crowley could think was that that moment, that feeling, that was what it was like to be home. He was home.

“You,” Aziraphale said, pulling back and looking up into Crowley’s eyes, voice bold and clear and utterly unafraid. “Just you, that’s all I want.”

“You’ve always had me, angel.” Crowley slid a hand up to cup the side of Aziraphale’s face, leaning in to kiss him slowly, deeply, as if he’d been waiting a hundred lifetimes to do it.

“Five thousand years…” he sighed, as they broke apart.

“Six thousand,” came the gentle correction.

“I wasn’t that keen on you for the first millennium.” Crowley laughed, pressing his lips to the angel’s forehead and then bending low to kiss him again, intoxicated by the sheer joy of the moment.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered, one hand reaching up to stroke Crowley’s hair back from his forehead, the words so quiet it felt as though he was breathing them into his skin. “I love you, I love you, I should have told you a thousand times before. I will never leave you again, it’s you and me now, always.”

“Run away with me, angel.”

For the first time in a long while, Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. “Anywhere.”

Behind the couple, the British Economics Minister and the US Defence Secretary sat on their usual wrought iron bench in front of the duck pond.

Inclining his head towards the demon and angel who were too wrapped up in each other to notice the world continuing around them, the British Economics Minister elbowed his acquaintance in the ribs. “There they go, I told you. Pay up, mate.”

Sighing, the US Defence Secretary dug a hand in his pocket and then slapped a ten pound note into the other man’s hand.

As an angel and a demon pledged themselves to each other for the rest of existence, kissed their love into being, neither had noticed the two bouquets of flowers laying on the ground by their feet next to two cards with identical words, containing a simple promise.

_Yours, ineffably._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, lo, the curtain falls on act two. Act three will be kicking off on Saturday, if you please. We've reached the halfway point of Part One, guys - can I hear a wahoo?
> 
> P.S. Thank you all for your sweet, funny comments, they mean so much more than you realise :)


	22. At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you doing?” he hissed, rushing into the kitchen and tugging the blinds closed before anybody else could witness the mid-morning…display.

******July 2019. St Ives, Cornwall.**

A new day dawned and the sun began its gentle ascent above a small cottage where an angel and a demon lay tangled up together. At last.

Crowley stirred first, eyes forever sensitive to sunlight, found himself coming to with the reassuring weight of Aziraphale’s leg hooked over his, the angel’s head nestled against his chest, perfectly mussed curls rising to brush against his chin as they breathed in perfect sync.

 _So this is how it feels_ , he thought, closing his eyes to soak up the enormity of the simple act of waking up and holding the world in his arms.

***

“We have to go. Now.” Crowley’s voice had been urgent as they raced back to his apartment from the park the previous afternoon, casting backwards glances over their shoulders every few paces. Every pedestrian, every shopkeeper, every _dog_ suddenly seemed suspicious, eyeing them with too much interest, walking too close to them on the pavement.

Aziraphale had grabbed his hand when a black cab screeched to a stop next to them, had jumped back from the curb, heart racing. Their London had contorted into a great beast, tens of millions of eyes watching them, waiting.

“Somewhere by the coast,” Aziraphale had suggested, carefully keeping back from the window as he paced up and down the apartment while Crowley hurled clothes into a leather holdall and refilled the plants’ drip feeders. “You can always breathe easier by the sea. Of course, it’s peak season, Crowley, we’ll never find anywhere.”

Crowley had emerged from the bedroom, bag in tow, kissed Aziraphale once, twice, then once more for luck. “Leave it with me.”

The drive down had been tense, Crowley steering with one hand as the other gripped Aziraphale’s, London disappearing behind them. The angel had snuck glances across at him as they passed signs for Andover, Sparkford, Honiton without a word, found his eyes trained on the road as he drove with a deep focus and a steady speed that Aziraphale had never seen before.

“I just need to get us there,” he had murmured, more to himself than Aziraphale, as they sat in traffic around Exeter in the midst of rush hour.

Aziraphale nodded, their old game of the words not said, squeezed Crowley’s hand as he searched the sky for…what? Heaven’s army riding down on white horses to wrench them apart? He wasn’t sure, he just knew it seemed incomprehensible that they could steal away like this, together and happy, escape heaven and hell’s watchful eyes and just _be_ for a while.

It had begun to rain as they passed the border from Devon into Cornwall, glorious open countryside rising up around them, clusters of forests speckling the hillsides, silent guardians in the distance. Crowley had tapped the brakes as raindrops pattered against the windshield, watched the speedometer until it dipped enough to satisfy him.

An hour later he let the Bentley roll to a gentle stop in the gravel car park, killed the ignition and flopped back against the headrest, exhaling built-up anxiety and laughing quietly to himself. “We made it, angel.”

“And now what?” Aziraphale had asked, thumb absent-mindedly running up and down the length of Crowley’s index finger.

The demon had turned to him then, the sweetest smile on his face. “Whatever we want.”

***

“You were incredibly lucky; a cancellation came through just a moment before your husband rang.” The property manager had given Aziraphale a warm smile when he’d ventured inside to pick up the keys, leaned around him to raise a hand and wave at Crowley.

“Incredibly lucky…" Aziraphale turned and looked pointedly at the demon, who was leaning against the bonnet of the car and held his hands up, shrugging innocently.

“Just wait until you see the view. Come on, I’ll take you down there now. You can bring the bags, can’t you hubby?”

Aziraphale could barely conceal his joy as he followed her down the winding path that cut through the hills and led to the holiday cottage. “Yes, let’s go…hubby.”

Crowley watched them walk away, then dutifully retrieved the bags from the back of the car, wondering if the saccharine nickname should have bothered him, realising happily that it didn’t.

***

Aziraphale woke slowly, thigh tightening around Crowley’s as he stretched, fingertips tracing their way slowly from the demon’s waist to chest as if he wanted to savour every single part of him, lips finding that achingly sensitive spot between his collarbone and jaw.

“Good morning, angel.” Crowley leaned down and met Aziraphale in a kiss, unhurried and brimming over with the joy of the day consisting of plans no more strenuous than basking in the warm glow of _finally_.

Aziraphale gazed up at him, chin perched on the demon’s chest, as if he was the most miraculous thing in the world. “It might be worth sacrificing every night to sleep, to wake up with you every morning.”

Nestled there, amongst the happiness, Crowley could sense unease in the angel’s eyes. He wrapped an arm around his waist, pulled him close. “What is it?”

Aziraphale sighed, shaking his head a little as if clearing his mind. “What if yesterday hadn’t happened? Imagine if we’d been too scared…"

“I don’t have to imagine it; it’s what we’ve been doing for the last six thousand years.” Crowley looked up at the ceiling, one hand tucked behind his head, elbow fanned out across the pillow.

It was something that had always broken Aziraphale, Crowley’s quiet resignation that his feelings were one-sided, how careful he had been to never overstep their carefully laid boundaries. “I wasted so much time hating that I loved you.”

“You can’t go down that rabbit hole. We’re here now.” His voice was gentle, as it always was when it needed to be.

Was there anybody else, Aziraphale wondered, who could be left waiting for six thousand years and not feel a shred of resentment? Aziraphale’s chest tightened at the notion of Crowley standing up to be counted alongside Beelzebub, Lucifer, Satan, with their forcefields of despair poisoning everything they touched. After all this time he had never lost sight of what he was: an angel, by the formal definition, at least. A being of love. Crowley was living proof that nothing could take that away without it being freely given up, not even the Almighty.

“No more wasted time,” Aziraphale said suddenly, nodding to reinforce his point. “No more fear. It starts today. Time to be free.”

“Sounds positively hedonistic. What did you have in mind?”

It was some time later before either of them left the bed, any attempt to leave thwarted by the other. It was a knock at the door that saw Crowley swinging his legs over the side of the bed, jumping into a pair of discarded jeans and sliding his sunglasses on as he padded through the cottage to open the door.

“Good morning, Mr Crowley.” Helen, the property manager who had given them the keys the previous evening, stood in the doorway brandishing a bouquet of flowers and a small wicker basket. “How was your first night?”

“Heavenly.”

“That’s what we like to hear.” She grinned at him, passing the flowers and basket over the threshold. “Just a small welcome hamper to get you started. St Ives is a short walk back the way you came but in case you wanted a quiet first morning…” She trailed off then, mouth hanging open as she stared at him in shock.

Crowley brought a hand up to his glasses, pushed them higher up the bridge of his nose. _Shit_. He cursed himself inwardly, they hadn’t even been there a day and he’d already attracted unwanted attention. Stupid, _stupid…_ He realised then she wasn’t looking at him but at something just behind him.

He looked over his shoulder to find Aziraphale strolling past them as he made his way towards the kitchen, completely and utterly naked.

“Morning.” He turned to give Helen a cheery wave and disappeared into the kitchen as if a naked angel waltzing through the hallway was an everyday occurrence.

“I…” Crowley attempted an explanation, then gave up and grimaced awkwardly, already taking a step back towards the kitchen.

“I’ll, er, leave you to it then. Happy honeymoon.” Eyebrows approaching her hairline, Helen gave Crowley a polite nod and retreated back up the path. Presumably, he imagined, to give everybody else in the office a run down of the exhibitionists renting Primrose Cottage for the next ten days.

“What are you _doing_?” he hissed, rushing into the kitchen and tugging the blinds closed before anybody else could witness the mid-morning…display.

“I’m embracing hedonism,” Aziraphale replied, as if it was obvious. “No more fear.”

“It’s like the bloody reverse Eden effect in here. We’re supposed to be inconspicuous. Here, learn the nature of shame.” Crowley reached into the welcome hamper and chucked an apple in his direction.

The angel caught it smoothly and took a bite, eyes closing to savour the tartness. “On the same wavelength, Eve and I.”

“Are you always such a handful when you aren’t paralysed with dread?”

Aziraphale looked up from rummaging in the kitchen cupboards, held an apron aloft victoriously and knotted it around his waist. “If you didn’t want me to be a handful you shouldn’t have made me fall so desperately in love with you. Any eggs in that hamper?”

Laughing at the sheer insanity of the situation, the joy that, perhaps, this could be life now, Crowley stalked around the kitchen island and backed Aziraphale against the kitchen counter. “That’s what demons do, angel, tempting and all that.”

“Consider me tempted.” Aziraphale looped one arm around Crowley’s neck, pulled him down into a kiss, breakfast preparation all but abandoned.


	23. Golden Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Like what you see?” Aziraphale asked, voice tinged with teasing as he brought a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.

******July 2019. Porthkerris Cove, Cornwall**

When Crowley thought back to the beginning of the year, to stealing glimpses of Aziraphale through the dusty windows of the bookshop and yearning for him with a pain that was almost physical, he had never dreamed he would be laying in the angel’s lap being hand-fed grapes just seven short months later. And yet there he was, head resting on Aziraphale’s soft thigh while enjoying a particularly flavourful berry.

It was another beautiful day in Cornwall and an angel and a demon were the sole visitors to a quiet cove tucked away on the headland, dark sand forming a slim crescent below grassy cliffs shot through with pink and purple wildflowers. Waves lapped lazily against the sand, moving with the same unhurried pace as the two celestial soulmates who had been munching their way through a decades-overdue picnic for the best part of the afternoon.

“Any more window cake in there, angel?”

“ _Battenberg_ , yes,” Aziraphale said primly, digging through the wicker basket to retrieve a small square of the marzipan-covered cake, the name of which had been the source of much affectionate bickering. “Window cake, honestly…”

“You know what your problem is?” Voice thick with cake and conviction, Crowley pressed the back of his head into Aziraphale’s leg to further reinforce his point. “You’ve got no sense of whimsy.”

“Excuse me, have you seen my hair? I’m whimsy personified.”

“You do have extraordinary hair,” Crowley conceded, sitting up to run a hand through it, leaving the ends standing up in clouds of white. “One of the first things I noticed about you, actually. That and the way you looked terrified I might take a bite out of you.”

“Can you blame me? One of hell’s most wicked, that’s what they called you. I had thought vanquishing hell’s emissary would be a little more bloodshed, a little less…this.”

“Mmm, my lot suggested I might want to tear you apart, piece by piece.” Tone as breezy as if he’d just suggested a stroll across the sand, Crowley tossed a grape into his mouth while Aziraphale stared at him, aghast.

“ _Piece by piece_?”

“Lucky you’ve got that whimsical hair, isn’t it?”

***

“Ready?” Crowley asked, crouching down to roll the legs of his jeans up to knee height.

Next to him, Aziraphale glanced out at the sea, watched the afternoon sunlight glitter off of the waves like a spray of diamonds. He looked down at Crowley, unsure. “This is England. It’s going to be cold, isn’t it?”

“Expect so.” The demon nodded back to their abandoned picnic blanket where two empty wine glasses stood side by side in solidarity to the pledge they had made the day before. He held out a hand, felt Aziraphale’s warm palm in his. “No more fear, right?”

“I’m not _scared_ , I just…”

“Go!”

Just as he had for the past six thousand years, Aziraphale let himself get tugged along behind Crowley as the two of them ran down towards the sea. Crowley made it first, crashing into the water with high, splashing steps, cascades of water flying up and drenching him from the top down.

“Bugger me, that’s freezing!” He inhaled sharply, felt a jolt at the end of his arm and turned to find Aziraphale perched on the edge of the sand, toes a hair’s breadth away from the water. “Oh, really, angel? What happened to _embracing hedonism_?”

“You’re not supposed to swim for half an hour after eating. Indigestion or…” Aziraphale trailed off into a shriek as a jet of freezing water hit him square in the face. Salt stinging his eyes, he wiped the back of one hand across his face and gingerly opened one eye, then the other, to see a grin on Crowley’s face that was positively demonic.

“It’s not that bad, when you get used to…” And then, suddenly, the world had upended itself and Crowley was plunged backwards into the water. He gasped for air, arms and legs flailing as he tried to find solid footing. Mild panic was beginning to set in when his back plopped gently down against the sand and he realised it was quite simple to catch his breath when the water was only a foot deep. Above him, Aziraphale stood victoriously in the water, hands on his hips as if he had just defeated an infernal foe.

It really _wasn’t_ that bad when you got used to it, Aziraphale had to admit. It was quite pleasant after a while, a cooling reprieve from the baking afternoon sun. They had swum out far enough to feel as though they were miles away from dry land, if they faced away from the cove, at least. They floated shoulder to shoulder, arms linked to anchor themselves, blissfully unaware of anything other than their own steady heartbeats. Every so often one of them would lazily paddle a few strokes to stop them drifting too far out to sea, a moment later the other might lean across for a kiss, but they were content to float there in silence, feeling the water underneath them and the sun above them. Neither angel nor demon had realised how much time had gone by until Crowley noticed they were floating back towards land, had already passed the large black rock they had swum past earlier. He twisted around to get a good look over his shoulder, felt his mouth drop open in disbelief.

“Aziraphale!” He shook Aziraphale's arm, flopped onto his front and started frantically paddling for the shore. “The tide!”

“Hmm?” The angel had been a moment away from sleep, a combination of the afternoon sun and the wine they’d had with lunch. “What about the tide?”

“It’s almost in,” Crowley hissed, pointing at the cove, which had all but disappeared under the encroaching tide. “The car keys, the phones! Quick, do a Moses!”

They made it back to the picnic blanket with inches to spare, scooping the phones, wine glasses and remnants of the picnic into the basket just moments before they would have been swallowed up by the water.

“Did you say _do a Moses_?” They were huddled on a rock at the base of the cliffs when Aziraphale turned to Crowley, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, yeah, I panicked.” He shrugged by way of explanation, turned to gesture at a sharply cut path that led up the steep cliffside. On the opposite side of the cove the gently meandering route up through the hillside had been cut off by the sea. “Looks like the only way out is up.”

“I’ve had way too much sun for this.” Aziraphale sighed in resignation, held out a hand. “Shall we?”

As it turned out, six thousand years of light strolls from bookshop to restaurant did very little to prepare an angel for a fifty foot free climb up the side of a cliff. Likewise, swaggering sullenly through the streets of London at 2am did nothing to build up a demon’s calf muscles.

As he grabbed handfuls of coarse seagrass and attempted to haul himself up over the edge of the cliff, Aziraphale toyed with the idea of elective discorporation. Humans did this for _fun_? He had seen humans dream up a number of odd pastimes over the years but this has to be one of the most inventive forms of self-flagellation he had come across.

Rolling inelegantly up onto flat land, aided by a well-timed shove from below by Crowley, Aziraphale clambered to his feet and tried to dust himself off, frowning down at the patches of wet sand clumped onto his clothes.

“A hand?” A small voice filtered up from below the cliff’s edge and the picnic basket came shakily into view. Aziraphale leaned over to take it, then offered his other hand and helped pull Crowley up over the verge.

“Sometimes I think I should get more exercise,” Aziraphale mused, as the two of them lay side by side on the edge of the cliff, legs hanging over the precipice and kicking back and forth into the cool early evening air. “Always seems like a worthy pursuit until I remember all the sweating and gasping for breath and muscle cramps.”

“Maybe we’re doing it wrong,” Crowley suggested, unconsciously tracing a pattern on Aziraphale’s bare forearm, fingers feathering gently from wrist to elbow. “Humans can’t seem to get enough of the stuff. Have you seen them in the park? Five in the morning, press-ups and the like. Bootcamp, they call it.”

“Not for me.” Aziraphale shook his head, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Climbing up here was quite enough exertion for the next decade or two.”

Crowley let his head fall to the side, looked across at Aziraphale laying next to him, framed by puffs of wildflowers, the day’s golden hour bathing him in radiant light as if he was the focal point of the most beautiful painting. He let his gaze rove over the angel’s features, his gentle eyes staring up at the sky, soft lips that curved up just so, tried to take a snapshot of exactly how he looked in that moment, to lock it away for days when he needed to remember what absolute happiness was.

“Like what you see?” Aziraphale murmured, voice tinged with teasing as he brought a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.

“It’ll do, I suppose.” Crowley laughed, reaching across to brush a fleck of dried sand from the angel’s cheek, followed the action by leaning in to meet him in a kiss rich with sea salt and utter contentment. “It’s unfathomable, how much I love you.”

Aziraphale sighed, one hand stroking Crowley’s wet hair, eyes travelling over every inch of his face as if it might be the last time he ever looked at him. “I’m so happy, here, with you.”

Crowley caught his hand, brought his fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to each one of his knuckles. “Then why do you look so sad?”

“It’s ephemeral, isn’t it? Happiness like this. Being with you feels like the kind of bliss that’s impossible to sustain, as though it could slip through my fingers at any time.” He stopped speaking then, looking down for a moment to steady his breathing.

“I waited six thousand years for you, angel. There is nothing heaven or hell or anything in between could do to take me away from you. Look at me, I swear to you, I’m yours for every moment that I’m breathing. And when this heart stops beating and I go back to being stardust, I will still find my way back to you.”

Sometimes there are words enough to express the staggering magnitude of being in love, but sometimes there is only a kiss, aching and tender, high above the rolling ocean, set alight by the glow of the setting sun.


	24. How Sweet It Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’d better stay out of sight.” Aziraphale turned back to look at him before he drew the final symbol and gestured over to the doorway that lay behind the portal he had drawn.

**July 2019. Primrose Cottage, St Ives.**

It had been a long while since Crowley had been in heaven but he would have wagered his earthly possessions that there was nothing in the realm of paradise that registered anywhere close to the utter euphoria of Aziraphale’s hands pressing his wrists against the mattress as the angel’s teeth grazed his collarbone.

“Holy hell,” he breathed, voice husky with untapped longing as Aziraphale leaned in agonisingly close, his breath warm against Crowley’s ear.

“I believe that’s what we call an oxymoron.”

Crowley arched his back to steal a kiss, couldn’t resist nipping at Aziraphale’s bottom lip while he was there. “Not the time to pick me up on my linguistic choices.”

“Quite right.” Aziraphale released his wrists and sat up then, the weight of him pressing deliciously against Crowley’s hips. As casually as if they’d been partway through assembling a jigsaw, he hopped off of the bed and fished his trousers off of the floor. “Time for a spot of lunch."

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Crowley leant up on his elbows, watched Aziraphale leave without so much as a backward glance. “I’ll get you back for this, angel.”

A second later Aziraphale’s head popped back around the door. “I’m counting on it.”

They’d fallen into an easy routine of eating lunch outside in the cottage’s pretty walled garden, legs entwined under the picnic bench as they enjoyed whatever treats they’d picked up in the bakery that morning. It had become a habit over the last few days: spend the morning walking into St Ives and exploring what the perfectly idyllic seaside town had to offer, return shortly before lunch laden down with scrunched paper bags filled with bread and pastries and warm, doughy pasties that sent curls of steam skyward when they broke into them, hungry from the morning’s walk, and whatever else had been on the agenda before lunch.

“I was thinking about what you said the other day, bliss being ephemeral and all that.” Crowley paused to take a bite out of a Cornish pasty, the earthy taste of the meat and saltiness of the gravy mingling in perfect harmony. “Don’t think I’ll ever get sick of these. Anyway, bliss, ephemerality. What’s the only way to make it impossible to lose something? Memories. Can’t destroy memories, can you?”

“Go on…” Aziraphale leaned forward, interested.

“Let’s live a life we could never forget. Goes hand in hand with your new-found appreciation for hedonism. What are the things you’ve always wanted to do, if fear didn’t hold you back?”

Aziraphale considered it for a moment, one finger tapping rhythmically against his chin. “I’ve never been on an aeroplane.”

“Perfect. We’ll go somewhere, travel the _human_ way. I’ve never tried absinthe, we’ll put that on the list.”

“I find that hard to believe, what great friends you were with Rimbaud, after all.”

“Mmm.” Crowley nodded, momentarily lost to memories. “You think he ever would have met his deadlines if someone hadn’t stayed sober enough to help him get home?”

***

It had started to grow dark outside by the time they had finished their list, ideas scrawled on a napkin in two opposing fonts: one script elegant and even, neatly sloped to the right, the other malformed and rushed, as if the fingers it belonged to couldn’t get the words out fast enough.

“Eclectic.” Aziraphale noted, finger hovering next to _go to a nightclub_ , which was nestled next to _stroke a dog_.

“Seems fitting.” Crowley folded the napkin in half, slipped it into his back pocket as they made their way back into the kitchen, busied themselves with tidying up the remnants of the day.

There was something reassuring in their silence, he thought, the way they carried out the most mundane of tasks without needing the fill the spaces between conversations. In the grand moments, the breathless kisses as the sun set behind them, the whispered declarations of an eternity of bliss together, he found a thrill deeper than anything he’d ever dared imagine. But it was in domesticity that he found stability, the quietest form of love that laid the foundation for everything else.

***

“Are you sure about this, angel? You don’t know who’s going to answer.” Crowley paced between the fireplace and the window in an attempt to channel his unease that wasn’t anywhere close to successful.

“I’m supposed to be in Greece tomorrow,” Aziraphale reminded him, kneeling down on the floor to fold the rug back, tiny motes of dust dispersing into the air as he did so. “Besides, I haven’t taken holiday in almost three centuries. I’m overdue.”

“Morocco?” Crowley asked, turning on his heel to pace back the way he had just come.

“Morocco.” Aziraphale nodded briskly, hurried onto the next point before the conversation about his last holiday could continue. “There aren’t many people in heaven I trust but it will attract less attention than if I’m reported missing in action.”

“Might think hell got its claws into you.”

“In a manner of speaking, it did.”

Crowley conceded then, pursing his lips and nodding with a heavy dose of pride. He came to a stop as Aziraphale ran his finger along the floorboards, drawing out shapes and symbols from memory. “Wish hell had one of these, would make dealing with Beelzebub a lot more fragrant.”

“You’d better stay out of sight.” Aziraphale turned back to look at him before he drew the final symbol and gestured over to the doorway that lay behind the portal he had drawn.

“Don’t step into it again. Think of the paperwork.” Crowley took a step back, lingered in the doorway safely out of sight and smiled cheerily as he waited for Aziraphale’s inevitable huff.

“Yes, _thank you_ for your constructive input.” He opened his mouth to continue but then the portal shuddered to life, pale blue light rising up from the floor as a hum echoed around the room.

“Hello?” Aziraphale called out, glancing down to make sure his feet were nowhere near the portal, hoped Crowley hadn’t noticed.

There was only silence. But then, when he’d started to fear he’d missed out a key symbol, a lilting voice filled the room.

“You’ve reached the Switchboard, how can I help you?”

“Oh, hello, I was hoping you could put me through to the Archangel Raphael, if you’d be so kind.”

“One moment, please. Have a blessed day.”

“The _Switchboard_?” Crowley scoffed, leaning in from the doorway. “Masters of originality, your side.”

“Shhh,” Aziraphale hissed, waving him away. “They’re not _my_ side. We’re on our own side, remember? Your favourite saying.”

“Aziraphale?” Raphael’s voice rose up from the portal, as clear as if they were standing there in the cottage.

“Hello, Raphael. How is…everything?” Aziraphale rocked back onto his heels and he clasped his hands in a vain attempt to stop fidgeting.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Straight to the point, as always. No time for smalltalk in an archangel’s schedule.

“I’ve decided to take a few days off, we’re having one of those rare English summers down here where the sun makes an appearance. Thought I’d have a little break down by the coast, spot of bird-watching perhaps.”

“I see, and the miracle you’re set to perform in Athens tomorrow afternoon?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, tried to keep his voice even as he launched into the white lie he’d been practising for the last hour. “I thought perhaps the Principality Nithael might be keen to take it on…they mentioned wanting to work further afield when we spoke at the Divine Conference.”

“Further afield.” Raphael fell silent, considering the proposal. From across the portal, Aziraphale shot Crowley a worried look. Maybe this was a mistake. “It has been a long while since your last holiday. Morocco, I believe?”

“Yes, yes, Morocco.” He smiled tightly, fixed his eyes on a particularly interesting smudge on the floor next to the fireplace. “Normal service will resume, of course, in a week or so.”

When Raphael’s voice filled the room a moment later both angel and demon breathed a sigh of relief. “I will speak to Nithael. Enjoy your break, make sure you’re well-rested for your return. We have a lot of work to do.”

“Splendid!” Behind his back Aziraphale clenched one fist victoriously. “Thank you, Raphael, much appreciated. Bye for now.”

“Goodbye, Aziraphale.” Raphael paused for a split second before dropping their voice to tack on their final goodbye, gentle amusement unmistakeable. “Goodbye, Crowley.”

“Bye, Raphael!” Crowley swung in from the doorway, brandished one hand in sight of the portal and gave a little wave.

As the background hum fell silent and the portal powered down, Aziraphale stared from the floor to Crowley, a look of absolute disbelief stretching from eyebrows to open mouth. “What in _God’s_ name do you think you’re…”

“Oh, chill out, angel, we go way back. Worked in the Creation department together.”

***

Aziraphale managed to keep up his sulk until the early hours of the morning, at which point Crowley set down a mug of tea and plate of shortbread biscuits next to him and the angel leaned up to plant a kiss on the side of his jaw, momentarily forgetting he was supposed to be grumpy.

“Forgiven me then?” Crowley asked, settling down next to him, one ankle leaning on the opposite knee as he spread that day’s newspaper across his lap.

“Hard not to with a face like that.” Aziraphale admitted, sliding one hand around the mug of tea. “Anyway, don’t you need to tell _down there_ you’re taking a holiday?”

Crowley looked up from the newspaper and glanced out the window at a neighbouring cottage, where a weathervane spontaneously crashed down from the roof and smashed into the windscreen of a Landrover parked outside. He shrugged, turning his attention back to the paper. “That’ll do.”


	25. Highway to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can genuinely say that in the six thousand years I’ve had this body that was the closest I’ve ever come to being discorporated.” Crowley pitched his arm back and then swung it forward, letting go of a smooth pebble and watching it bounce across the calm water.

**August 2019. Primrose Cottage, St Ives.**

Crowley was psyching himself up to flip a pancake when he heard Aziraphale’s voice behind him, so innocent he immediately grew suspicious.

“Crowley?”

He twisted to look over his shoulder, fish slice working its way under the pancake to lift it free of the pan. “Yes, angel?”

“I want to try something.”

Turning to face Aziraphale, he leaned back against the edge of the hob and drummed his fingers against the kitchen counter, curiosity well and truly piqued.

“If it’s, er, too much, you must tell me.”

It took a lot for Crowley’s nonchalant veneer to crack but when he heard those words tumble sweetly out of Aziraphale’s mouth he was fairly sure something in the back of his brain exploded. It might have been the half smile of intention on his lips, or the way he pushed off from the kitchen counter and tracked hungrily across the room, but understanding dawned on Aziraphale and he nodded along with the misunderstanding.

“Ah, no, not that…well, not right now. Actually, maybe now. But later, I would like to try driving.”

“Driving?” Crowley stopped, head pulled back in momentary confusion.

Aziraphale took a step forward, the beginning of excitement lighting up his eyes. “It’s something I’ve never tried. Never really needed to.”

“No, convenient when you have a chauffeur, isn’t it?”

“Thought I should see what all the fuss is about. The open road, freedom stretching out for miles ahead, windows down…”

Crowley nodded slowly, making a mental note to keep the angel strictly away from city roads, lest his hazy dreams of leisurely road trips become tainted by the reality of congestion charges and parallel parking. “I saw a hire car garage a few miles away, back near Camborne. We could head out this afternoon, pick you up something nice and reliable.”

“I thought, perhaps, I could try my hand at the Bentley.”

“The _Bentley_?!”

Crowley was plunged into crisis. The Bentley was his most beloved possession, more an extension of his own self than a vehicle. They shared a relationship that had endured even beyond Armageddon…but then Aziraphale rarely showed such spontaneity. It was something Crowley had been gradually teasing out of him, making decisions based on what he wanted rather than what was expected of him. It was just…Crowley hadn’t realised his wants extended to stepping behind the wheel of the most noble, precious car that had ever graced England’s roads.

“Yes,” he whispered, regretting the word as soon as it left his mouth. “You can drive the Bentley.”

***

“Aziraphale!” Crowley’s voice rose into a scream as the Bentley came close to taking the bend on two wheels. He was contorted in the passenger seat, one hand palmed against the window and the other clinging onto his seatbelt, one foot up on the dashboard to brace against the inevitable crash. Next to him, Aziraphale grinned as they flew through the country lanes with the windows down and the wind whipping past them.

“I can see why you love this!” the angel yelled, eyes flicking from the road to Crowley. “Pass me your glasses, there’s a bit of glare.”

Risking letting go of the seatbelt for a second, he fiddled with the glove compartment and retrieved a spare pair of sunglasses. He passed them dutifully to Aziraphale, who slid them on and cackled demonically. As they breezed over a stone bridge, all four wheels leaving the ground for a moment of flight, Crowley swore he could see the devil in him.

“My suspension,” he wailed, feeling the car judder underneath them as Aziraphale took a cattle grid at sixty miles an hour.

He had realised the grave error he’d made the moment Aziraphale flattened the accelerator against the floor and they’d screeched out of the car park, gravel flying up around them like waves before it rained down on the back of the car. He _knew_ the back bumper was going to be scratched and the condition of the tyres didn’t bear thinking about.

Aziraphale had taken to driving with boundless enthusiasm, if not skill, wrapping his hands eagerly around the steering wheel and manhandling his way through the gears with a crunch that left Crowley gritting his teeth and swallowing the string of expletives he was itching to bellow.

Aziraphale turned to smile at him and they drifted across the road until they were racing down the centre of the narrow lane. He slid a hand up Crowley’s thigh and gave him a reassuring squeeze, before suddenly veering right down a sharp side road that had been hidden behind an overhanging blackberry bush. In that moment Crowley could swear he heard the engine crying and attempted to telepathically reassure his beloved car that it would all be over soon, one way or another.

It seemed miraculous, suspiciously so, that they were both still in full occupation of unscathed human vessels when Aziraphale finally, mercifully, twisted the key in the ignition and leaned back against the headrest, satisfaction etched across his features.

“That was exhilarating,” he announced, cracking open the door and ducking his head as he clambered out, blissfully unaware the car was parked diagonally across three spaces.

“I am so sorry.” The second Aziraphale’s door swung closed Crowley ran a hand along the dashboard, leaning forward and whispering to the car as he watched the angel pace happily through the car park towards Marazion beach. A low moan rumbled up from the engine in response. “Look at his little face, how could I say no?”

***

“I can genuinely say that in the six thousand years I’ve had this body that was the closest I’ve ever come to being discorporated.” Crowley pitched his arm back and then swung it forward, letting go of a smooth pebble and watching it bounce across the calm water.

Next to him, Aziraphale paused to scatter pebbles with the toe of his shoe and then bent to pick up the perfect specimen. He sent it flying towards the water with a well-practised flick of the wrist, counted the skips and nodded to himself, pleased.

“You’re only allowed to be nervous of my driving when I’ve driven you down Oxford Street at ninety miles an hour, see how you like it.”

The purpose of the drive was only partially to satisfy Aziraphale’s curiosity about being behind the wheel; it was also an excuse to venture across the skinny Cornish peninsula to visit St Michael’s Mount, a sight that, somehow, neither angel nor demon had seen throughout their time on Earth. As they strolled along the strip of beach that ran the length of Marazion, the looming tidal island came into view, the stone path that connected the mount to the mainland cut off by the evening tide, a mysterious castle perched atop the grassy mound.

“Now that’s my kind of house.” Crowley pointed up towards the solitary castle, framed by grey clouds as the night drew in around it. “No neighbours, no intercom, just you and me. Look at all the space you’d have for your books. What do you reckon?”

“I reckon we’ve found our retirement castle. If I don’t discorporate you with my barely reckless driving before then.”

“Don’t fancy my chances with one of the other bodies hell has in stock. Have you seen the state of them?” Crowley had grown fond of his body over the years, enjoyed the rangy length of it.

“Mmm. Heaven doesn’t have many left over either. Punishment for carelessness, I think, getting saddled with the dregs.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Crowley, if something ever did happen, if I came back _different_ , would it change anything?”

“Angel, I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen when your outfit of choice was a bedsheet with ideas above its station.” He paused to brandish a dried up little leaf in Aziraphale’s face. “You could come back as this leaf and I would love you however I could. New drip feeder every day, the good stuff as well, organic.”

***

Two forks lay discarded on an empty plate, sticky rivulets of treacle sponge pudding slicked against the porcelain. There had been a brief debate about which dessert was the superior choice, treacle sponge or devil’s food cake, but the treacle won out in the end. Just.

Crowley sat back, fingers wrapped around a glass of red wine, the bottle sweating between them on the table. “Last day tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me.” Aziraphale sighed, rolling the base of his glass this way and that, gently aerating the wine. “Can’t we just stay here, abandon the whole angel and demon thing?”

“Oh, sure. Power up that portal again and I’ll have a word with good old Raphael.”

Aziraphale fired a glare across the table, still sore from the other evening’s shenanigans. “That was _not_ funny. You don’t know who else could have been watching.”

“If there’s one other angel I don’t want to tear apart limb from limb it’s Raphael, you can trust them.” Taking the final swig from his glass, Crowley leaned forward to pour Aziraphale a refill before draining the last of the bottle in his own glass.

While Crowley was weighing up the pros and cons of ordering a second bottle of wine (pros: more wine. Cons: waste of wine when driving home was imminent) Aziraphale was muttering away on the other side of the table, more to himself than Crowley. “I know _I_ can trust them, it’s whether you can that worries me. Crowley, I need to tell you something…”

“Not tonight, angel, we’ve got tomorrow to start worrying about reality.” Crowley caught his hand across the table, smiled hopefully. Aziraphale nodded; there would be other opportunities to tell him, no need to ruin the spell of perfection this trip had wound around them.

They staggered back to the car while the rest of the town settled in for sleep, legs loose from the combination of wine and sugar overload, Aziraphale’s arm wrapped around Crowley’s waist, one finger running unconsciously across the strip of bare skin between his waistband and t-shirt.

As they reached the Bentley Crowley stalked a tight lap around the car, peering into its gunmetal surface for any sign of damage. Finding not even a light coating of dust from the country roads, he glanced back at Aziraphale. “Nice work on the scratches.”

“I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.” The angel looked away shiftily, then spoke again a moment later. “Thank you for today; I know how much this car means to you.”

Aziraphale took a step forward, leaned in to kiss him and, for a moment, Crowley lost himself, allowing the angel to manoeuvre him back against the car, felt his hand inching its way lower, lower. He caught Aziraphale’s hand a heartbeat before it dipped into his pocket for the car keys.

“Nice try, angel."


	26. God Only Knows What I’d Be Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he stared up at the infinite stars, millennia-old light making the steady journey across the galaxy, Crowley remembered, for a moment, life before he fell.

******August 2019. Carbis Bay, Cornwall.**

“Warlock, what a name.” Crowley looked up at the night sky, his laugh echoing out across the expanse around them. “Poor kid. Do you think he’s all right?”

“I’m sure he’s hunkydory.” Aziraphale felt a flicker of guilt that he hadn’t given the boy they’d spent eleven years guiding very much thought over the past twelve months. It was almost exactly a year since his eleventh birthday party, which, incidentally, marked the date of his last foray into close up magic. He fished in his pocket to see if there was a coin handy; alas, only his phone and pocket lint. “Back in America now, I believe.”

“Do you think things might have turned out differently if we’d actually got the right Antichrist?” Over the months since Armageddon failed Crowley’s mind had often drifted back to the past, wondering if their presence in Tadfield during Adam’s formative years might have shaped him into something else.

Aziraphale reached out, found Crowley’s hand in the dark, swung it lightly to and fro as they walked on in the darkness. “Oh, I think we probably would have made it worse, knowing us.”

“Mmm, don’t suppose they would have had much need for a nanny either, or a gardener.” It seemed a hundred lifetimes ago, those years spent sneaking up to the manor in the belief that they were dismantling Armageddon life lesson by life lesson. It was something that worried him, that he might have instilled too much darkness in the boy, hoped Aziraphale’s gentle lessons in kindness had rooted themselves more deeply.

Aziraphale stopped walking, turned to face him and spoke with a seriousness that had the demon fooled, for a moment. “Speaking of, I've meaning to ask you something important. You don’t still have that bonnet laying around, do you?”

Crowley fixed him with a withering stare, whacking him lightly on the chest as he sauntered past, picnic blanket tucked under one arm. “Just a bit further up here I reckon.”

Both angel and demon had spent the day ignoring the underlying sense of dread that their blissful escape to the coast was coming to an end. The next morning would see them driving back up to London to try to make their new life together work alongside their opposing celestial duties. They’d put off discussing how exactly life together could possibly work but a plan had been building in Crowley’s brain.

The well-trodden cliffside path forked left up a gentle slope that looked out across the bay. In the sprawling darkness there wasn’t much of a sea view but that wasn’t what they were there to see. The view they were after was the one directly above them.

Aziraphale lay back onto the blanket, legs stretched out in front of him, Crowley’s shoulder pressed to his. The reassuring feel of their bodies touching in some way, any way, was something Aziraphale was loathe to give up when they returned to the city. He had grown used to the casual displays of affection, holding hands as they walked to the bakery in the morning, returning from dinner arm in arm, couldn’t conceive of the notion of walking by Crowley’s side as if he was no more than an acquaintance.

“Are you working on Thursday?” Crowley asked, his voice piercing the silence.

Heaven had left Aziraphale mercifully alone since he’d explained he was taking time off. He assumed Raphael had seen to it that he wouldn’t receive any work briefings until he returned to London. They might not respect curiosity or independent thought or love up there but one thing they did respect was annual leave. “Not that I know of. Why?”

“We’ve got an appointment, Thursday morning.”

Though Crowley had spent the last ten days telling Aziraphale all the ways he loved him, showing him just how deep his devotion ran, the angel still felt a flutter in his chest at the reassurance that they would still exist as a _we_ after they left the cottage. In some ways, there was more of a thrill to be found in the everyday, as if they were just another couple forging a life together. “That sounds wonderfully mundane.”

“I’ll remind you of that when you see the paperwork involved.”

***

“One of mine, that one.” Crowley raised a hand in the darkness, pointed up at a constellation of five stars shining high above them. “Corvus.”

“So you’ve always had a thing for crows…” Aziraphale trailed off thoughtfully, tracing the outline of the stars with one finger.

“Always championed the misunderstood, even back before.” He leaned in towards the angel, pointed out another cluster of stars, a grand swirl of pinpricks dotting the sky. “I helped with that one too.”

“Now you’re just showing off.”

Crowley laughed, paused to take a sip out of the thermos of tea they’d brought with them. “Ah, but are you impressed?”

“Always.” Aziraphale reached over to run a hand through Crowley’s hair, lost his fingers in the soft lengths of it. “Even when I didn’t want to be.”

As he stared up at the infinite stars, millennia-old light making the steady journey across the galaxy, Crowley remembered, for a moment, life before he fell. He had never been interested in leading, or teaching, or fighting, didn’t have natural aptitude for anything besides getting on the wrong side of authority. They’d despaired over what to do with him for a long while, until the Almighty had announced plans to move further afield, to _create_. His name had found itself in the mouths of the archangels; perhaps, finally, they’d found something to satisfy his inquisitiveness, something that would put a stop to those never-ending questions.

It did, for a while. They placed him in the far-flung reaches of the endless abyss, told him to stick to the carefully drawn plans and behave himself. He did, until he grew bored of creating simple stars and dreamed up submoons and neutrinos and other surprises he was still waiting for humanity to discover.

While Aziraphale was busying himself learning all of the stringent rules that came with the honour of being a Principality, Crowley was unceremoniously removed from cosmos duty and placed on a smaller project where it was easier to keep an eye on him. And so, gifted freedom by the Almighty herself, he set to work populating Earth with life, the _first_ life. He’d spent a lot of nights reliving those years, how it felt to do work he put his whole soul into rather than work that destroyed it.

“Angel?” When his voice came, it came as a whispered question under the safety blanket of darkness. “How did you know about the forests?”

He felt Aziraphale’s fingers curl around his own, closed his eyes against the overwhelming weight of baring a part of himself he had never dared speak aloud. 

“I saw you, you know, before you fell. Just once. There was something in the way you moved. You were…fluid, the rush of a dam bursting. I felt you before I saw you. That chaotic energy too infinite for heaven to contain. You walked past me, stalked past me, really. That scowl. And then you were gone.” He laughed then, fell silent as he soaked up the memory. “I would feel you sometimes, in the time after that, like an aftershock. I felt it that first day in the Garden, and I felt it in the forests. I felt _you_. When you made them you left a trace of yourself. It was love that you left, like a fingerprint, and there was nothing heaven could do to take that away.”

Crowley stared up at the sky, felt the shame and the guilt gnaw at him. He had created beautiful things once but he had spent a hundred lifetimes since tricking and tempting and spreading despair. “Aziraphale…You don’t know the things I’ve done.”

“And you don’t know the things heaven has asked of me. Angel, demon, they’re just words. We aren’t so different. Whatever you’ve had to do to survive down there, you’ve left so much more love than hate in this world.”

It wasn’t absolution, nothing ever would be, but as Crowley held Aziraphale’s hand and stared up into the night he felt, for the first time, as though there might be something in his soul worth saving.


	27. Wouldn’t It Be Nice?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale followed him dutifully, hand in hand, not having the heart to mention they didn’t care whether the wardrobes were walk-in or free standing or non-existent.

**August 2019. Soho, London.**

It was strange, Crowley thought, that London had continued existing without them. Their time away had felt so seminal it was as if the rest of the world had been put on pause. It had kept ticking along, though, as it always did.

Aziraphale was waiting for him, of course. He’d already been early once that millennium, anything more might tilt the Earth off of its axis.

It had been a long night alone in the apartment after they’d returned to London; he’d filled the hours by working his way menacingly through the rows of plants, examining them carefully, administering discipline where it was required. By dawn three empty plant pots served as a warning to the others, that snarled refrain of _grow better_ echoing around the apartment’s dark walls.

“Morning, angel,” he murmured, leaning in temptingly close as he drew up alongside Aziraphale, tucked safely out of view around the corner a narrow side street.

“All unpacked?” Aziraphale asked, allowing the side of his hand to graze lightly against Crowley’s, half hidden by the sleeve of his jacket.

“Waste of time, just have to pack it all up again soon enough.”

Aziraphale frowned in confusion as Crowley nodded across the road to a sandstone facade, twin doors pushed open in welcome. Above the doorway, in shades of blue and cream, were the words _Soho Estates_. “Thought it wouldn’t hurt to move a little closer to home. Together.”

As understanding dawned on Aziraphale he laid all sense of secrecy aside and flung his arms around the demon’s neck, disbelief bubbling up through his throat. When Crowley had mentioned an appointment he’d had a few ideas but _this_ was more than he’d been capable of imagining. “Really, Crowley, you’re serious? Together?”

“It’ll be somewhere that’s ours, somewhere we don’t have to sneak around.” Crowley leaned down to press a kiss to his lips before they broke apart and stood side by side on the pavement, looking up at the shop front and all of its endless possibilities.

***

“Occupation?” Liam, the estate agent who had been tasked with the dubious honour of finding London’s celestial power couple the perfect love shack, glanced up at Crowley from over a clipboard of paperwork.

Crowley shrugged, eyes flicking to the road outside to look for inspiration. A chubby springer spaniel ambled by. Seemed fitting. “Dog walker.”

He nodded slowly, mentally trying to make sense of a dog walker with a Soho budget. He turned to Aziraphale, assuming this was where the money must lay, in the pocket watch and bow tie. “And you, sir?”

“Bookseller,” Aziraphale replied, beaming proudly.

“Business booming?”

Aziraphale shook his head, offended at the very idea. “Heavens no.”

“Gents, before we get started I’m going to run a quick check on the finances here. Routine, nothing for you to worry about.” Tucking the clipboard under one arm, Liam excused himself and disappeared into the back of the office.

As soon as he was gone, Aziraphale turned to Crowley, eyes wide in panic. “ _Dog walker?_ He’s going to send us away. Couldn’t you have said something more lucrative. Lawyer, or…doctor?”

“Doctor?” Crowley echoed, gesturing vaguely down at himself. “In what universe can I pass for a doctor? Loads of money in dog walking these days. Don’t stress, angel, it’ll be fine.”

As it turned out, it was. Liam returned to the desk a moment later balancing two cups of coffee and a plate of biscuits on a tray, such earthly constraints as financial background checks all but forgotten. 

“Sorry, gents, where were we? I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached.”

***

“You’ve got your master bedroom through here, ensuite shower room as standard.” As Liam led them through the apartment and ran through the specifics, never once deviating from his carefully rehearsed script, Crowley and Aziraphale followed him dutifully, hand in hand, not having the heart to mention they didn’t care whether the wardrobes were walk-in or free standing or non-existent. All that mattered was that this would be a space that was theirs, somewhere safe to retreat to together at the end of the day.

The tour finished in the living room, windows stretching from floor to ceiling and filling the room with light. Crowley nodded approvingly. Bad for his eyes, good for the plants; it had been a trade off he’d grown used to over the years. Compromise, that was what everything came down to.

“What do you think, gents?” Liam spread his hands wide, turned in a half circle to look from angel to demon.

“We’ll take it!” Aziraphale burst, patting his pocket for a pen. “Where do we sign?”

“Ah.” Liam pressed his palms together in apology. “Unfortunately you’re not the only couple who are interested. We had another viewing before you came in. Martha and Rory, lovely couple, she’s a doctor, he’s an architect…”

As Liam continued singing the praises of their competition, Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s eyes burning into the side of his face. He looked across, saw the angel furiously mouth the word _doctor_ at him.

“…It all comes down to the highest offer, at the end of the day. It’s a tough market out there these days, gents.”

***

“Fucking! London! Rental! Market!” Crowley had stayed silent until the door of the bookshop was safely locked behind them, before cursing whichever demon was behind the utter chaos of London’s rental free for all, scrubbing his feet furiously against the welcome mat with each word.

“One of yours, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale reminded him helpfully, hanging his coat up and heading into the back room in search of something to settle their nerves while they waited to find out if their bid had been accepted. Crowley had suggested they go in sky high, while Aziraphale had gently pointed out they did actually have to be able to pay for it and Principality wages weren’t what they used to be, what with inflation and the like.

Uttering a guttural growl of frustration, Crowley raked both hands through his hair and stalked after the angel. “That was the _one_ I didn’t think would ever bite me in the arse.”

“Lucky we can miracle ourselves a bit of good luck, eh?”

“I can’t, angel, I already used mine on the financial check. You?”

Before leaving Cornwall they had settled on a list of ground rules to avoid drawing attention to themselves and arousing heaven and hell’s suspicion. Entry number two on the list concerned frivolous miracles, something both of them had grown too accustomed to. One per day, that was the limit they’d decided on.

“I, er, I’m afraid I might have wasted mine.” The angel paused, while Crowley nodded for him to continue, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Burnt my toast this morning, had to dial it back a bit. Oh, don’t look at me like that, I didn’t know about your plans for the love nest.”

“The love nest?”

“Whatever you want to call it. Here.” He passed Crowley a glass of whisky, reserved exclusively for taking the edge off of desperate times. “If we lose this place we’ll find something else.”

Crowley softened at the sound of Aziraphale’s quiet hope, took his hand across the table and attempted a smile. “I know, I know. I just don’t want to waste any more time, don’t want to lose out to bloody…Martha and Rory. Wait, why do I recognise those names?” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to recall a memory that wasn’t forthcoming. “Never mind.”

Crowley wasn’t good at waiting, unless it was for Aziraphale. All of his patience had been channelled into the past six thousand years of waiting and his reservoir had run dry. As they spent three agonising hours in the shop waiting for the phone to ring, Crowley became more and more convinced the whole idea was doomed to failure.

“Stupid idea,” he hissed. “I knew it was going too well. A demon and an angel shacking up like…bloody… _husbands_.”

Aziraphale had learned long ago to take Crowley’s mood swings in stride, knew all of the affirmative noises to make, when to refill his glass and, now, when to clamber into the same roomy armchair and slide his arms around the demon’s waist, rest his chin on his shoulder.

“We never thought we’d end up here, did we? Even so, here we are,” he murmured, lips hovering by Crowley’s ear. “We’ve waited all this time, a few more weeks isn’t going to hurt. Whether it’s this place or another, shacking up is what we’re going to do.”

Crowley let his eyes drift closed, allowed Aziraphale’s voice to soothe him. There was something about the angel’s unshakeable belief that everything would work out well that calmed him. It felt like role reversal, Aziraphale, whose natural state was low level panic, taking the reins as the optimist. That was love, though, wasn’t it, taking it in turns to step up when the other needed it?

“Is it him?” Aziraphale strained to look at the screen of Crowley’s phone as it buzzed to life in his hand.

“Who else is it going to be, Satan calling for a catch up?” Crowley took a deep breath, then slid one finger across the screen, holding the phone halfway between the two of them. “Liam?”

“Hello Liam!” Aziraphale bellowed cheerfully, raising a hand to wave at the screen.

“Not a video call,” Crowley breathed.

“Gents, hi.” Liam’s voice filtered out through the phone. “Lovely to meet you both earlier.”

“Did we beat the doctor?” Aziraphale leaned forward eagerly.

Crowley brought the phone up to his ear, holding a finger to his lips as Liam chatted happily away as if they weren’t waiting for life-changing news. Aziraphale sat back, fidgeting as he tried to read Crowley’s expression, which remained aggravatingly neutral.

“Mmhmm.” The demon nodded. “Yes, okay, mmhmm. Thanks, Liam. All right. Speak soon, mate.”

He ended the call, dropping the phone into his lap. Next to him, Aziraphale grabbed his shoulder. “ _Well?_ ”

When Crowley turned to look at him, the smile that spread across the demon’s face, equal parts relief and excitement, was the only answer he needed. “Full speed ahead with the love nest, angel. We get the keys in two weeks. Someone up there’s looking out for us after all.”


	28. Walking on a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought maybe you wouldn’t bring it,” Aziraphale said lightly, glancing down at the statue and feeling his cheeks flush. “You know it makes me…tense.

**September 2019. The Love Nest, Soho.**

Aziraphale had never had a bedroom before. He’d had places of residence, of course, over the years, but never a bedroom. The shop had the back room, with its comfortable armchairs and cosy fireplace, and that was the closest he’d ever come. Until now, at least. He meandered through the empty space that would soon be brought to life as their bedroom, which was infinitely more exciting than if it had been _his_ alone.

Navigating life as a _they_ had been somewhat of a dream and Aziraphale had caught himself letting things slip that week when he’d got chatting with a visitor who asked if he ran the bookshop alone.

“Oh, no my partner helps out when we’re busy.” Just a small lie, a white one, barely even counted. “He’s a dog walker.”

“That’s nice, dear.” She turned back to the book she’d been inspecting but Aziraphale found himself getting carried away.

“Moving in together this weekend,” he had continued, gently taking the book out of her hands and placing it back on the shelf before she had time to register what was happening. “Just got back from a trip to the coast. Devilishly handsome. Let me show you a picture, hang on one moment…”

“Love’s young dream.” She had smiled politely, then made a beeline for the door while Aziraphale wrestled with his phone.

“Angel?”

At the sound of Crowley’s voice echoing in from the hallway, Aziraphale snapped out of his recollection, ducking out of the bedroom and through the empty living room, where the demon sauntered in carrying a large cardboard box overflowing with greenery.

“Finally, I’ve been here for hours!”

“Oh wow, you look incredibly excited.” Crowley set the box down on the pristine floorboards, dusting his hands down on his thighs a second before the angel barrelled into him. “Happy moving day.”

“Our own place.” Aziraphale sighed happily, his hand sliding neatly into Crowley’s back pocket as they stood at the living room windows and took in the view of Soho’s rooftops. It was one of the main selling points, the twelfth floor position. Not the tallest building in London by a long stretch, but high enough to give them a prime vantage point.

“If we’re still talking to each other by the time we’ve finished unpacking, we’re the real deal. One of the tests humans use, apparently. Bit late by that point though.” Crowley pressed a kiss to the side of Aziraphale’s mouth, glancing down at the pavement outside to watch for the delivery van that was due at any moment.

He’d picked up the keys the day before, posted a set through the shop’s letterbox and then retreated across London for his last night in the apartment. He’d renewed the lease on it, thought it smart to keep up appearances just in case. By the end of that day, though, it would be an empty shell used for nothing other than business correspondence.

Aziraphale had arrived at the flat before dawn, slipping inside the building’s lobby, all marble and clean lines, while the rest of London slept. They’d agreed to never enter or leave the building at the same time and had registered all documentation in Aziraphale’s name, hoped it would be enough to keep the flat their little secret. Unless, of course, Aziraphale got too excited and accidentally told the entirety of London that he was moving in with a devilishly handsome dog walker.

It hadn’t taken long to pack the apartment up, not when the plants made up the bulk of Crowley’s possessions and they had come with him in the Bentley, which was, to its joy, parked in its very own space in the garage underneath the building. After near enough a century left to fend for itself on London’s streets, it was feeling particularly spoiled.

“Here they are.” Crowley pointed down to the white van that had just pulled up outside. “You stay in here, I’ll help them bring everything up.”

“Can I do anything to help?” Aziraphale called after him, feeling woefully inadequate leaving Crowley to handle everything.

“Tea,” came Crowley’s reply. “And biscuits.”

By the time Crowley and the removal men came puffing down the hallway Aziraphale had prepared a mighty spread of tea and biscuits. Three pots of tea (one breakfast, one rose, one peppermint) were happily brewing away, while a veritable marketplace of biscuits fought for attention in the elaborate display Aziraphale had assembled. The bourbons were winning, of course, made of sterner stuff than the custard creams.

Aziraphale heard a deep thud from the hallway, accompanied by hissed expletives that sounded remarkably snake-like.

“I’ll take it from here, guys, thanks.” Crowley’s voice was tightly polite, his intonation abruptly darkening as soon as the front door closed behind them. “Bloody, sodding, pissing thing.”

“Everything all right?” Aziraphale poked his head around the door and stretched a hand over the marble statue to pass Crowley a conciliatory biscuit. “Ah, thought that might be tricky to move.”

“More trouble than it’s bloody worth.” Crowley stood up, took a bite of the biscuit and closed his eyes as if it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever tasted.

It was only when Aziraphale looked at him again he noticed the sweat on his brow, the dirty palm prints that covered his t-shirt and jeans. Perhaps he _hadn’t_ drawn the short straw by having to stay inside.

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t bring it,” Aziraphale said lightly, glancing down at the statue and feeling his cheeks flush. “You know it makes me…tense.”

Crowley laughed then, kneeling down to dig his shoulder into the marble demon’s armpit and give it a good hard shove. It slid an inch or so across the floorboards. Momentarily admitting defeat, he slumped on the floor and looked up at Aziraphale. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, angel. Piece of art, that. They’re fighting.”

“Fighting.” Aziraphale raised both eyebrows. “Well I look forward to _fighting_ when everything is unpacked. Where did you even get that thing? It’s so…specific.”

“Had it made specially.” Crowley paused to try another shove. Three inches this time. Progress. “Evil vanquishing over good. Or something. Just wanted to see how you’d react, really.”

Aziraphale tried to think back to the first time he’d laid eyes on the statue. The memory eluded him. It seemed as though the infernal thing had been a fixture in their life for centuries now. “And was it as you’d hoped?”

“As I recall you walked in, stared at it for a disconcertingly long time, looked vaguely terrified and then avoided me for the next sixty years.”

“And now here we are, shacking up.”

Crowley slapped the thigh of the marble angel, grinned up at Aziraphale. “All worked out in the end, didn’t it? I think it looks fine here. Shall we just leave it where it is? Yeah?”

“It’s blocking the living room doorway, Crowley. Can’t you, you know, _lighten the load?_ ”

“Nah, I already used mine this morning. Sent all of London’s traffic wardens to St Paul’s so the van wouldn’t get a ticket. Can you do it for me?” He fixed Aziraphale with his best wide-eyed, _how could you say no to your ineffable love_ look.

“Vanish it back out into the street is what I should do,” he muttered, inclining his head sharply to the left and taking a step back as the statue rolled neatly through the doorway and settled itself into a corner.

“We’ll turn it into a coat rack, you can use my wings if you like.”

Aziraphale counted backwards from three in his head while he waited for the penny to drop in Crowley’s mind.

“ _The_ wings. You can use the wings. The unassociated demon’s wings.”

Aziraphale shrugged out of his jacket, draping it gingerly over the marble demon’s wings. After careful observation he nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Looks like you’re dressed up as me.”

“Best I’ve ever looked.” Crowley laughed, then crossed the room and took Aziraphale’s face in his hands, meeting him in a kiss that started sweet and deepened as the angel tugged at his jeans to close the last trace of distance between them.

When they broke apart it was only for a heartbeat, just long enough for Aziraphale to breathe words into the warm air, eyes fluttering closed as Crowley’s lips found his neck. “The way I love you has always felt so infinite, I used to think the only way for us to be together was to lose ourselves in the stars.”

Crowley’s voice then, husky and hot against his ear as the demon’s fingers tightened in his shirt, pulling him closer. “I lost myself to you a long time ago, angel.”

It took a polite clearing of the throat and then a pointed cough before angel or demon registered the audience of two removal men who were eyeing the statue in a new light as they carried the sofa through into the living room.

***

The clock struck midnight as Crowley and Aziraphale gave up for the night, pledging to finish the arduous task of unpacking the next morning. For now, there was a highbrow dinner of chips and sushi to enjoy, surrounded by cardboard boxes and the heady anticipation of their first night of freedom.

The champagne had been unpacked, of course, and Crowley carefully poured out two glasses before collapsing back onto the sofa, exhausted and happy.

“To domestic bliss.” Aziraphale raised his glass and an angel and a demon toasted to the next great adventure.


	29. The First Cut is the Deepest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is this?” Crowley asked eventually, words formed slowly as he turned the leaflet over to look for small print. “What does this mean, angel?”

**October 2019. Raphael’s Office, Heaven.**

“Lovely work, Aziraphale. One hundred and fourteen souls saved.” Raphael pointed to a bar chart that hovered in the air between them. “That holiday did wonders for you, clearly.”

“Yes, they do say sea air is restorative.” Aziraphale smiled politely, looked away before Raphael could note the blush blooming in his cheeks.

It had been Crowley’s idea, of course, intercepting the SOS from the pilot’s deck and miraculously restoring the navigation system. He’d suggested it one evening as they sat in peaceful silence on the sofa, Aziraphale reading his latest purchase, Crowley curled up next to him, head in his lap. He’d been taking more of an active interest in Aziraphale’s work lately, offering ideas more and more frequently, swelling with pride when Aziraphale returned to tell him how the work had gone. There was more to it, Aziraphale knew, than simply trying to be helpful.

Crowley was withdrawn when he came back from his own work these days, sullen even. His return to the flat would be marked with a sharp slam of the door, a heavy sigh in the hallway, and then hours of broken sleep.

“I need to forget for a while, angel,” he would whisper, and then he would disappear into himself while Aziraphale stroked his hair and murmured promises of a better world. He didn’t have confirmation of a better world, not yet, but perhaps, together, they could figure out a plan.

“Raphael, can we speak candidly?” Aziraphale shook the memory away and stood for a moment, pressed the office door closed behind him. “It’s about the Repentance and Rehabilitation…”

“Have you told him yet? Raphael asked, lowering their voice.

“Oh, er, who? I don’t know what you’re getting at there.” Self-preservation had been Aziraphale’s motivation for six thousand years and it was a tricky habit to let go of.

“Aziraphale.” Raphael looked at him, trying and failing to keep a straight face. “I thought we were speaking candidly.”

“Okay, okay.” Aziraphale took a moment to collect himself, then let the abridged version of his deepest secrets spring forth, finding a great weight lifting from his shoulders as the confessions left his mouth. “I’ve been in love with the demon Crowley for six thousand years and now we’re living together in the Love Nest in Soho. It’s not really a nest, it’s a flat, but it’s called the Love Nest.”

“So you _have_ been a busy Principality.”

“You joke but do you know how much work it is to keep up with a demon? Honestly, Raphael, you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you…” As it turned out, the transition from master of secrets to brunch-time oversharer was a swift one. Aziraphale leaned forward in his seat, lowering his voice as his eyed widened with the memory of the past three months.

Raphael coughed delicately. “I can only imagine.”

“I mean, _insatiable_.” He followed the sentence with a gesture he’d seen on one of the god awful television shows Crowley left running in the background in the flat. He didn’t know exactly what it meant, but it felt correct.

“Thank you, Aziraphale, for the visual I never asked for nor needed.”

“Well, you _did_ ask.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside Raphael’s office and both angels fell silent, watching the strip of light under the door until they were sure they were alone again. After the momentary interruption all notion of gossip was forgotten and Raphael swung the conversation back to the task at hand, voice hushed with whispered urgency.

“One month before the Rapture, that’s when it’s happening. The Archangel Michael will deliver the news to hell in person two weeks before that. I don’t know everything but I know that it is real and it is happening. They haven’t discussed numbers, not in front of me, but the Fallen who are accepted _will_ be in heaven for the Rapture.”

“And those that aren’t?” Aziraphale’s tone was so lightly inquisitive it almost sounded genuine but Raphael could sense the real question he was asking.

“If he’s not up here when it begins, there’s no way back.”

Aziraphale sat back, exhaling heavily as he drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. “Gabriel will never let him back in.”

“It’s not just up to Gabriel,” Raphael said gently. “Michael will be there too.”

“Oh, fantastic! That’s sorted then. It’s not like Michael has any reason to deny the Fallen.”

“You need to tell him, Aziraphale.”

“I know.” The words came out brusquer than intended. A second passed and he shook his head, smiled weakly. “I’m sorry, I know. I was waiting until I knew his safety was guaranteed.”

“This is heaven, Aziraphale, nobody’s safety is guaranteed.”

***

“Angel, I’m home!”

When Crowley’s usual greeting at the end of a good day singsonged down the hallway, Aziraphale flexed his fingers once, twice, then clasped them behind his back to give them something to do.

Crowley tossed his keys into the dish on the side table and shrugged off his jacket, hanging it up on the statue. He approached Aziraphale and leaned across to kiss him on the cheek before he retreated into the kitchen. “How was your day?”

Aziraphale heard the low buzz of the coffee machine as it sprang to life. He glanced across at the clock above the fireplace, half past six. Sleep wasn’t on the cards that night then. Something else, perhaps, something celebratory.

“Revelationary. First meeting with Raphael since we got back.”

“Oh, yeah? Went well then?” Crowley leaned in from the kitchen, waved a mug in Aziraphale’s direction. “Coffee?”

“Maybe something a little stronger. I have some good news.”

“Oh?” Crowley’s voice was muffled as Aziraphale heard the seal of the fridge pop open. “Prosecco good news or champagne good news?”

Aziraphale pulled the R+R leaflet out of his pocket, smoothed it across his lap. “Champagne, I think. I hope.”

“I’m intrigued.” Crowley reappeared a moment later carrying two glasses of champagne, bubbles rising and popping victoriously as they reached the surface. He passed one to Aziraphale, set his down on the coffee table and looked at the angel expectantly.

“Heaven might have come through for us after all.” Aziraphale held up the leaflet, passed it to him when he reached out a hand. As Crowley’s eyes scanned over the words, Aziraphale chewed his lip and waited for the reaction.

“What is this?” Crowley asked eventually, words formed slowly as he turned the leaflet over to look for small print. “What does this mean, angel?”

“It means that there might be a chance for you to be forgiven, for you to become an angel again.”

Restraint wasn’t Crowley’s forte. He wore his emotions like other beings wore their skin; right there on the surface. Aziraphale watched the disbelief in his face turn to something that looked a lot like hope. The demon looked up from the leaflet, eyes wide as the full weight of possibility hit him.

“We could be up there…together?”

Aziraphale nodded, allowing himself to give into the first swirls of excitement, the idea that maybe, finally, they wouldn’t have to hide any more. “I think so.”

The breath was pushed clean from his lungs as Crowley dived on top of him, knocking him back against the sofa cushions and peppering his lips with kisses. Foreheads pressed together, they clung to each other and Crowley’s laugh echoed around the flat, brimming over with happiness.

“Is this real? I wouldn’t have to go back to hell any more?”

“It’s real, according to Raphael. They’ve found out what they can for us.”

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s back stiffen against his hands, felt his arms go rigid as he pushed himself up and looked down at the angel, something darkening in his features. “Raphael knew about this?”

“Yes, they’ve been gathering information for me. Today they told me the dates of…”

“ _You_ already knew?” Crowley sat back, his voice growing quiet as the air in the flat suddenly thickened around them.

_Lie to him_. A darkness in the back of Aziraphale’s mind willed him to make something up, to pretend he’d only just heard about the programme. He looked at Crowley’s face, at the hurt that was already folding itself into his posture, shoulders rounded and head downcast. “I…yes, I was there when they announced it.”

“How long?”

“I had to wait, I had to know it was…”

“How long have you known, angel?”

Aziraphale swallowed, feeling panic rise in his throat. He reached for Crowley’s hand, felt as though the last of the air had escaped his lungs as the demon snatched it away. When he spoke, his voice came out as a frantic whisper, the words tumbling together into one big mess that reeked of trying to hold something together that was coming apart at the seams. “The conference. They told us at the conference.”

Crowley fell silent then, looked down into his lap as his chest rose and fell faster and faster as he sucked in great lungfuls of air to try and calm his heart. “You knew for a year. You knew about this and you didn’t tell me? You lied to me?”

“I couldn’t, not until I knew you would be safe. It wasn’t, technically, a lie. It was more of an omission.”

“Do _not_ try and get out of this with loopholes. You let me suffer for a year down there and you didn’t think a little bit of hope might have been helpful? You’ve seen what that place did to me!” Crowley’s voice rose from hurt to anger as he stood up and made for the hallway. He paused to grab his keys from the side table as he left, balled his fist in his jacket and slung it over his shoulder.

Aziraphale leaped off of the sofa, ran after him, pleading in a voice that sounded so desperate he barely recognised it as his own. As Crowley stormed down the stairs Aziraphale called out to him, sprinting to try and catch up before he left. “Crowley, please, don’t go. Let me explain. Wait, Crowley, _wait_!”

He stopped at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice, wheeling round and stamping back up the steps towards him, eyes blazing and mouth twisted in anger. When he spoke, his voice came out as a low hiss. “I spent six thousand years waiting for you, angel.”

“Please, please don’t go. Please just let me explain.” Aziraphale grabbed for his hand, clasped it in his own and brought it up to his lips. “Please listen to me.”

He took a step towards the demon, reached out an arm to pull him close. Crowley let him, for a moment, but then he pulled away and retreated back down the stairs. As he reached the front door, he turned back to find Aziraphale standing there, powerless to do anything other than watch him go.

“How could you do this to me?” Crowley’s voice fell, and it was so filled with quiet heartbreak that Aziraphale had to close his eyes to steady himself. When he opened them, he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little author's note just to say thank you so much, all of you, for the continued support. Your comments honestly make my day! Next update is coming on Monday, just so you don't think I've forsaken you <3


	30. Love Will Tear Us Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m here, angel! The prodigal demon has returned!” he shouted, slamming the door closed with a flourish as the last customer fled out into the street.

**October 2019. London.**

When Crowley was listless, he walked. When he was stuck for an answer, he walked. When he was angry or sad or overwhelmed with desolation the answer was usually to go for a walk. It burned off some of the energy that seemed to permanently shudder through him, would quiet his body, at least, if not his mind.

On the night Aziraphale broke his heart he walked the length of the city, sunglasses on despite the darkness, head down as his feet pounded the pavement and he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

Anger and hurt and the thorny sense of betrayal undulated through him until the swell of emotion felt like too much for one human vessel to withstand, as if the weight of it might rip him clean in half.

The sting of Aziraphale’s omission pinched with every step but it wasn’t as simple as betrayal. It was the humiliation of putting faith in somebody who didn’t return it, the rage that heaven had, again, driven a wedge between them, that they had Aziraphale so deeply terrified that he couldn’t conceive of a situation where they weren’t setting him up for failure.

Crowley knew only too well how it felt to be under heaven’s iron rule, even better than Aziraphale, perhaps. And that was one of the fundamental differences between them; where Crowley was authentic even to his own demise, Aziraphale was cautious and achingly self-aware. They had both existed under heaven’s regime but where one had carefully carved out a life that was almost fulfilling, the other had barely made it past the start line before being sent away, cast forever into the role of _wrong_. 

Worst of all, looming darker than the betrayal and the embarrassment was the uncontrollable anger at heaven for allowing him to have hope. For the first moments after he’d read about the programme he felt as though it was the answer to everything they’d been looking for. Life, free from hell, standing by Aziraphale’s side as an equal…allowing him to disappear into that dream for even a second was heaven’s cruellest deception.

Crowley walked until he had seen parts of London he didn’t even know existed, until dawn’s first light streaked across the horizon and painted the sky anew. And then, with no desire other than the need to channel his anger into something that, perhaps, could be a resolution, he turned to begin the long walk back towards forgiveness.

***

 _Stupid, arrogant, cowardly angel._  Aziraphale stared at his red-eyed reflection in the mirror as he continued to berate himself, wondering if there were enough insulting words in existence to serve as adequate punishment and, if not, how long it would take him to dream up a few more.

He _knew_ how Crowley would react to finding out, and quite rightly too. Aziraphale had hidden information that could have made the last twelve months even slightly more bearable. And why? Because he feared for him; he couldn’t imagine an outcome that didn’t involve heaven having a trick up its sleeve. But, really, if Aziraphale let that quiet voice in the back of his mind speak up, it was because the idea of giving up an iota of control was a flaw he had spent six thousand years unable to overcome.

He had cowered his way through life ever since that day he stood there and watched the Fallen have their sentence read, crowds of angels watching and laughing and revelling in the knowledge that it would _never_ be them standing up there. All you had to do was stick to the rules and heaven would keep you close. But, quietly, Aziraphale had broken every rule heaven had ever put in place. There was a benefit to being underestimated. _Quiet_ Aziraphale, _enthusiastic, bumbling_ Aziraphale with his funny clothes and strange love of human culture. It had been six thousand years and the mask he wore had barely slipped; the only times it had all came back to Crowley, as everything always did. The ultimate risk, the one that had always been worth taking.

Control was what had kept both of them safe for all of this time and though he had known it would hurt when Crowley found out he had kept this from him, after playing out every eventuality in his mind he knew that hurt and betrayal were safer than whatever humiliation, whatever punishment heaven could be hiding behind the simple notion of repentance.

Life had always felt to Aziraphale as though he was holding onto balloons that could drift skyward at any moment, as if the only way to keep control was to wrap the strings in his fist tighter and tighter. It was impossible, though, to keep hold of everything at once; if he kept Crowley safe then his honesty threatened to break free, if he did what heaven demanded of him then he sacrificed love.

Admitting the depth of his love for Crowley had been the most reckless rebellion of Aziraphale’s life. Stability was something he clung onto like a lifeline but there was something about love that made him brave enough to defy heaven’s unspoken menace. And yet, there was another side to it, the creeping dread that his own rebellion would lead to Crowley’s downfall. It was why he had spent six thousand years turning away, saying never, saying not yet, saying soon and then, when his heart wouldn’t let him lie any longer, saying _yes_. Yes, I love you, yes, you are mine, yes, I will keep you safe until the end of everything.

Aziraphale didn’t know if the R+R programme was a trap; if he let go of control, if he was honest, perhaps it really could be a way for Crowley to be granted forgiveness. The thing was, though, he had begun to realise that even if heaven decided Crowley deserved their forgiveness, heaven didn’t deserve his.

***

“Don’t bother, mate.” The sun sparkled through the windows of A.Z. Fell and Co as Crowley slammed a hand down onto the book and it fell from the man’s hands, crashing onto the floor of the shop with a dull _thunk_. “He won’t sell it to you. He might pretend he’s going to, he’ll let you _think_ you can buy it but it’ll just be a lie.”

Voice rising with every word, by the time he finished speaking every customer had turned to stare at him as he moved through the shop, body weaving like a cobra. Danger rippled off of him in waves and the customers found themselves scrambling for the door, abandoning any notion of purchasing a book as they fought with each other to escape the overwhelming fury that was pulsing through the shop.

“I’m here, angel! The prodigal demon has returned!” he shouted, slamming the door closed with a flourish as the last customer fled out into the street. The shock of the door hitting the frame reverberated through the shop and he heard the satisfying sound of Aziraphale’s footsteps hurrying down the stairs from the kitchen. He steeled himself, gritting his teeth as he waited for Aziraphale one last time.

Aziraphale had known Crowley had arrived before he heard him causing a commotion downstairs, had felt the cloud of darkness that was a demon who had lost all control of himself. He rarely saw the demonic side of Crowley, was far more familiar with his soft side, the side that was made up of midnight kisses and Sunday afternoon ice creams. The Crowley that stood before him in the shop that day was something truly demonic, chest heaving and lips curled up into a sneer, the startling sight of his eyes exposed in the day time catching Aziraphale off guard. Despite the vortex of despair around him, Aziraphale didn’t fear him, could never fear him, felt only the hurt that his betrayal had caused.

“Look, Crowley, please listen to me. I know you’re angry.”

“Angry?” Crowley laughed, a cold bark that sounded as though it had come from a stranger. The faintest licks of flames curled from his tongue as he spoke. “There isn’t a word for what I am. Do you know the worst part, angel? It’s not even that you lied to me, it’s that it took you this long to decide that they might see me as worth being forgiven.”

“I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure it wasn’t a trap. Everything I’ve done has been for us, to keep you safe. You don’t understand what they…”

“No,” Crowley hissed, arms uncoiling from across his chest as he paced towards Aziraphale. “ _You_ don’t understand, angel. You don’t know the things I’ve done for us, you couldn’t even comprehend the things I’ve had to do. I have done _unspeakable_ things to be with you. The only thing that has ever mattered is getting back to you, the idea that one day we wouldn’t be told that this is wrong, and you knew, this whole time you knew there was a chance and you let me think it was hopeless.”

He stalked a wide circle around Aziraphale, his breathing ragged and eyes glowing scarlet as the sky darkened around them, filling the air with thick clouds of smoke. “Exciting, was it? Thrilling, being with a demon? What a _rebel_ you are, Aziraphale, until it matters. Good enough for your bed but not good enough to stand by your side in heaven. You haven’t changed, this is just like…”

“Don’t you _dare_. This is _nothing_ like that. I needed time to think of a plan. Crowley, you have to believe me, you don’t know them like I do. It’s too big a decision to act impulsively.” As Crowley approached him, Aziraphale backed up against a bookcase, open-palmed and wide-eyed.

“It is _not_ your decision to make. If I decide to stand up there for judgement it is _my_ decision.”

“I know,” Aziraphale whispered, voice soft as they locked eyes for the first time. “I know it is.”

“You should have told me the moment you found out. We are supposed to be a _team_. You are so convinced that you’re the only one who can make decisions, so convinced that you’re the centre of the universe. This isn’t about me and you, this is about heaven point scoring against hell one last time. That’s why they want us back from hell. And if they could steal _me_ back, well, I’m the forbidden fruit. I started _all_ of this, I _am_ temptation.”

“I cannot lose you, Crowley, not after everything we’ve done to get here. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“ _I_ don’t know? Angel, I stood up there as they sentenced me to eternity in hell, don’t tell me I don’t know what they’re capable of. Do you know what it’s like to fall? It’s like watching all of the stars in the sky go out one by one. And then you…” He looked away, voice threatening to crack. When he spoke again his voice was soft, and there was forgiveness there, nestled amongst the memory. “And then you walked into my life and spent six thousand years lighting them back up.”

Aziraphale took a step closer to him, saw the demonic gently ebb away until there was only his Crowley, trusting him to light up the sky again.

“I will never keep anything from you again. I know that I-” A pause then, his jaw clenching, tongue pushed against the back of his teeth as he searched for the words. “I know I have to let go of…of trying to control everything. I just think if I can keep hold of everything, if I can think about the risks and decide everything, then maybe I can keep you safe. That’s all that matters to me. If I could take your place, if there was some… _exchange_ …”

Crowley looked up at him, laughing quietly, took one step forward, then another, and another, until they were face to face. “And if there was, we’d still be exactly where we are right now. You told me once that my burdens didn’t have to be mine to bear alone, that they were ours. You don’t have to carry everything on your own, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale reached out for him then, one hand cupping the side of the demon’s face, thumb lightly stroking his cheek. “I was scared of losing you before you were even mine to lose. I never knew I could be so desperately happy but it’s always there, fear, lurking in the shadows, whispering that this can’t last. The happier we are, the higher the risk. I don’t trust them, Crowley, not with you. I’ve been trying to think of any other way.”

“There is no other way, angel. When the Rapture comes if I’m here and you’re up there…This is our only chance. We have to try.” Crowley leaned into Aziraphale’s palm, felt the angel’s fingers travel over his skin leaving love wherever they touched.

“I swear to you, whatever you choose, I will be there standing by your side. I will never let them hurt you again. I spent six thousand years too terrified to let myself love you because the fear of losing you was too much to bear. I know I failed you with this. I know that I am hesitant and stubborn and incapable of relinquishing a shred of control but I will be who you deserve, and I promise you it will not take me another six thousand years to get there. You will never have to wait for me again.”

It was there, amongst the dusty books and tea stained floorboards, in the little room where they had quietly fallen in love over a hundred night time conversations, that Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand, and this time the demon didn’t pull away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up...a *slight* change of pace, unofficially titled 'Aziraphale's Big Night Out'.


	31. Take Me Out Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you all right?” he asked, cupping one hand around Aziraphale’s ear to drown out some of the music. Decayed Disease had just taken to the stage and they were not known for their gentle melodies.

******November 2019. The Love Nest, London.**

“Show me your London.” Aziraphale appeared in the bedroom doorway, startling Crowley out of a nap he’d only half committed to.

“I’ve told you, angel, you don’t have to keep asking so politely, what’s mine is yours.” Crowley pushed up onto his elbows and reached down to fiddle with the top button of his jeans, looking across at Aziraphale from under half closed eyes. He caught the look on the angel’s face and swung his legs off of the bed, laughing as he slipped past him into the living room. “All right, all right, since when did you become such a puritan?”

“ _London_. You’ve seen mine, I want to see yours. Tonight.”

Crowley looked back at him, one sharp canine pressing gently down on his lip as he tried to bury a smile. “You really need to work on your phrasing.”

“I don’t need to know where we’re going or what we’re doing, just take me out, show me where you like to go. We always go to my places, let’s go to yours tonight.”

It was all part of the conscious effort Aziraphale had been making since that day in the bookshop a month previously when he promised to give up some of the control he’d held so dear for so long. It had started small, of course, as these things always did. Letting Crowley loose on the Deliveroo app without micro-managing the menu for the evening, or resisting the urge to change the television volume to an even number. Small steps were a safe way to test the water, miniature reassurances that relinquishing control didn’t mean the end of everything, that it could be liberating, in its own way.

There were the bigger things too, like his determination not to ask Crowley about his decision about the R+R programme, resisting the urge to sit down and form a thoroughly researched plan about how they could ensure it all went smoothly.

His request to discover Crowley’s London, the other side of the city they had lived in and loved for so long, fell somewhere in the middle. It had occurred to him earlier that day, as he’d ruminated on the possibility of dinner out that night, perhaps one of their old secret rendezvous points, that he had no idea how Crowley had spent his time alone in the city.

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale and thought of the way the angel knew London, as brightly lit sushi restaurants and dusty bookshops and high tea in opulent rooms where a pianist gently played in the background and you had to book six months in advance, unless of course you had miracles in your fingertips.

“You wouldn't like it, angel.”

“Why on earth not?” Aziraphale sat down next to him on the sofa, aghast at the notion that there might be a part of himself that Crowley could share that he wouldn’t like.

“For someone like you it’s not a million miles away from stepping into hell.”

***

“This isn’t hellish at all, it’s quite charming really.” Aziraphale leaned forward to take the glass from Crowley’s hand, beads of condensation dripping down onto his thumb. He wiped it on the thigh of his trousers, reached out for a napkin to blot away the water then stopped himself. _Leave it_.

Crowley laughed, taking a deep drink from the bottle in his hand as he winked. “Thought I’d better start you off with somewhere you recognise.”

Aziraphale looked around at the sturdy wooden bar, the nondescript bar stools that almost but didn’t quite match, clusters of tables adorned with beermats that curled at the edges after one too many unsteady hands. In all honesty it could have been any English pub and Aziraphale would have been none the wiser.

“I guess last time you were here you weren’t, technically, anywhere. I was in here attempting to drink myself to discorporation after I thought I’d lost you.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly as the recollection kicked in. The edges around those hours after accidentally stepping into the portal were fuzzy, like a dream he had to snatch at to remember. It was the feeling of somehow being everywhere and nowhere, all he knew for sure is that Crowley had stood out like a beacon in the darkness, a homing point to head towards when everything else was black. “And I was in here looking for a receptive body.”

“One of us succeeded then, eh?” Crowley raised his bottle and clinked it against Aziraphale’s glass as the angel snorted with laughter, smile wide and bright as he caught Crowley’s hand across the table in a rare display of public affection. The demon glanced down at their entwined fingers right there in the open for everybody to see; his eyes flicked to the window, where the street was bathed in the last of the day’s light. “Angel…”

“Let them look,” Aziraphale said boldly, raising their hands an inch or two above the table just to be sure nobody could mistake the situation.

It was taking some getting used to, letting go of his inner control freak, and Aziraphale had a growing tendency to go too far the other way on occasion. Crowley was content to let him feel out this new horizon however he needed to, trusted he’d settle into a happy medium eventually. For now, the joyous feeling of having a regular drink in a regular pub like any regular couple in love was worth the risk, though he was quietly confident that any of heaven and hell’s respective emissaries sent to check up on them weren’t likely to frequent pubs in Holborn on a Saturday evening.

***

There was something about London after dark that had always thrilled and intimidated Aziraphale in equal measure. In the daylight hours London was like a friendly pet, welcoming and high energy and buzzing with life and love and laughter. By night, it transformed into a wolf, something prowling and wild, where anticipation hung in the air as if anything could, and would, happen. With Crowley by his side, London at night time felt like a secret he was more than ready to get acquainted with.

“You _didn’t_.” Aziraphale’s voice echoed around the corner, announcing their arrival before they swung into the street hand in hand, Crowley leading the way as they half ran, half staggered through the streets of London towards their next watering hole.

“I absolutely did, that was the moment.” Crowley laughed, pulling the angel close and leaning back against the rough brick wall of an empty shop. “Priceless gift from the Almighty and you just gave it away as if it was a bag of crisps, who could resist that kind of reckless kindness? Hoped if I hung around you long enough it might rub off on me.”

“Now who needs to work on their phrasing?”

“Wholly intentional, I assure you.” The end of his sentence muffled into nothingness as Aziraphale leaned in to kiss him, the juniper-sharp tang of gin fresh on his tongue.

“It was strange when I realised,” Aziraphale murmured as they broke apart, thoughtfulness winding its way across his face. “It was like I’d just remembered a fact that had eluded me for years, as if I’d always known it.”

“Took your sweet time telling me though, didn’t you?”

“And now I can’t seem to stop.” Aziraphale leaned out from the wall to throw one arm wide and address the entirety of the city, voice just one drink shy of coming out as a slur. “I’m in love with a demon!”

“Sounds like you know my ex-wife.” A man ambled past them, giving Aziraphale a sympathetic look from over the collar of his winter coat before chuckling to himself as he walked on down the street.

***

It was two bars later that Crowley finally announced the main event, an establishment that sounded frightfully exciting to Aziraphale. _Edgy_ , even. As they stepped past the doors, banging rhythmically against the outside wall in the winter wind, Crowley nodded to the heavily tattooed doorman and led Aziraphale inside.

They walked down, down, down the steps into the basement of the building and Aziraphale couldn’t shake the notion that he was descending into the depths of hell. Red light shone up from the room below, throwing shadows onto the walls that twisted into flames if you let your mind wander; the thick beat of the music thrummed up to greet them, deep and heavy and brimming over with fury. Aziraphale noticed the way Crowley loped down the steps, fingers loosely coiled around his own as if they were strolling through the park in the sunshine. There was nothing for it but to follow the demon headfirst into whatever lay waiting for them. He _had_ asked to see Crowley’s London, after all.

At the bottom of the stairs Crowley turned to him. “I know this isn’t your thing so if it’s too…loud, we can leave, I don’t mind.”

“I’m enjoying myself immensely.” Aziraphale beamed back at him, balling one fist in enthusiastic glee. “An evening of trying new things, what’s not to like?”

The first band of the evening took to the stage just as Crowley slunk into the room, Aziraphale in tow, and found them a spot eardrum-shatteringly close to a speaker. _Baptism of fire_ , he thought to himself, as the lead singer leaned in to speak into the microphone.

“We’re Cranial Haemorrhage and this is Quantum of Doom.”

The room shuddered under the intensity of the music that flooded out of the speakers like a wave of bubbling sulphur that stripped bare everything it touched. Brutal guitar riffs that sounded like tortured shrieking were laid over that deep bassline that felt as though it was being played on Aziraphale’s heartstrings. The relentless drum beat soared over all of it, the rhythm to which the other revellers pistoned their heads to and fro, eyes closed, utterly lost to the meter.

As Quantum of Doom ricocheted into Slave to Emptiness, which gave way to Monstrous Karma, Aziraphale could do nothing other than stand, transfixed, and let the wall of sound wash over him. It was like nothing he’d ever witnessed or, indeed, could even have fathomed.

“This music,” he said, finally, leaning close so the demon could hear him, “it’s like screaming, this _is_ like hell.”

Crowley’s laugh was mirthless. “Only difference is in hell it isn’t _like_ screaming.”

Crowley settled into his usual spot, back flush with the wall, head lingering far too close to the speaker. His ears would be ringing by the time they left, might settle back to normal some time the next day. His old routine; it bordered on cosy, the familiarity. Though, this time Aziraphale, who was the entire reason behind his visits to the club, was right there in front of him, watching the crowd with the most wide-eyed expression of innocence on his face.

As he leaned back against the damp black brick he allowed his mind to wander back to his first visits to the club all those years ago, how he would seek to escape thoughts of Aziraphale but only ever seem to leave with them amplified all the more.

It was a curious thing, a connection he hadn’t fully understood until a few years later when he walked past an open window blasting Iron Maiden from inside and found his heart racing with thoughts of Aziraphale’s face inches from his, hot breaths and unspoken longing filling the space between them. _Ah_ , he’d said to himself as he walked on, shaking free of desire as he paced away from the window, _seem to have accidentally acquired a Pavlovian response to metal music. Not at all inconvenient, that._

“Are you all right?” he asked, cupping one hand around Aziraphale’s ear to drown out some of the music. Decayed Disease had just taken to the stage and they were not known for their gentle melodies.

“Tip top,” the angel insisted, smile turning to a grimace as he watched blood fly from the guitarist’s index finger.

“Ripped a callus, I expect,” Crowley said, by way of explanation. “Drink?”

***

Aziraphale squinted down into the glass, counted three, four, _five_ ice cubes. He sighed but had grown used to humanity’s tricks to shaft him out of adequate measures of alcohol, had come to see it as no more than a minor hurdle on the quest for drunkenness.

“Too much ice again?” Crowley raised an eyebrow, smirking into his ice-free bottle of beer.

“Two cubes is plenty. We’re not trying to sink the bloody Titanic.”

Crowley looked away, trying to swallow the shifty smile he knew was threatening to escape. “No, who would do such a thing? That was a…a grave tragedy.”

Oh, Crowley, _really_?” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, keeping up the old charade of disapproval for the demon’s past exploits. He opened his mouth to continue but felt his jaw slacken in horror as the crowd in front of them parted and belched out a _demon_. Their pale skin didn’t appear to have seen the sun in decades, was accompanied by a grizzled salt and pepper beard, long tendrils of hair hanging well below their shoulders. Aziraphale grabbed for Crowley’s hand, gripped it tight and closed his eyes in grim acceptance as the demon strode towards them.

“Crowley, you crafty old devil!”

Aziraphale felt a tug at his hand as Crowley was pulled forward into a rough hug by the demon, who looked a lot less demonic now he was beaming at the two of them like a proud father. The angel looked across at Crowley, confusion knitting his brows together as the two of them clapped each other on the back and Crowley actually _smiled_.

“So this is why you’ve forsaken us?” The man grinned down at their clasped hands, then extended a hand towards him. His voice was hoarse but he shook Aziraphale’s hand gently, his smile open and warm. “We thought there was only one reason this one would disappear for so long.”

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s arm wrap around his shoulders as he pressed a kiss to the angel’s hair, waving his bottle between them by way of introduction. “The one reason indeed, caught me red-handed. Mick, this is Aziraphale. Aziraphale, Old Mick.”

“Less of the old, thank you, some of us aren’t gifted with _good genes_.” Mick held up his fingers to form air quotes around his last two words, gave Aziraphale a conspiratorial smile as if he was in on the secret. “Get the name of his doctor for me, will you, Aziraphale? It’s been thirty years and the bastard hasn’t aged a day.”

“I keep telling him the same thing, to go grey naturally is to look _distinguished_.” Aziraphale gave Mick a wink, settling into the conversation with relish. Meeting friends he’d never known Crowley had, to be introduced as his _one reason_ , every step of this evening had been gloriously unexpected.

Mick laughed to himself, reaching over them to accept a beer from behind the bar and then clapped Crowley on the shoulder. “I’m happy for you, mate, really.”

He raised his beer to them and then was swallowed up by the crowd as suddenly as he’d appeared.

“Well, he seems like a delight.” Aziraphale nodded with satisfaction, taking a long gulp of his drink.

“One of the good ones.” Crowley smiled fondly, momentarily lost in a memory. “Used to ask why I had a face like a smacked arse all the time.”

“Oh? And what did you tell him?”

“Fishing, are we? Something suitably dramatic about the enduring torture of unrequited love.” He laughed, then lifted his bottle up to the light and tutted when he saw it was empty. “One more before we head back in there?”

“I’ll get these.” Aziraphale drained the rest of his drink, made a mental note to politely request an absence of ice in the next round.

***

The thing about being the only angel and demon to settle on Earth was that there weren’t many opportunities for jealousy to rear its head. Aziraphale and Crowley’s transition from enemies to acquaintances, colleagues to friends, soulmates to celestial lovers had been fraught with hiccups and danger but one thing that had never been present was competition.

When Aziraphale turned back from the bar, drinks in hand, to find Crowley slouching against an unused bar stool and looking around the room in boredom while two humans whispered in his ear, the rabid jealousy that flared up inside him was an entirely new feeling. It had been a night of firsts, after all, so perhaps it was appropriate.

He saw Crowley hold up both hands and shake his head, mouth barely holding back an amused smile. _Funny, is it?_ Aziraphale fumed to himself, stalking towards them and thrusting the beer into Crowley’s hand.

“Ah, the boyfriend, I assume?” The man scuffed one heavy black combat boot against toe of Aziraphale’s shoe and flashed him a smile that wasn’t a million miles away from the bared teeth you might receive from Gabriel before he said something particularly cutting. “Thought perhaps we could borrow your fella for the night. Would ask you to come but…not sure it’ll be your thing.”

“Borrow him for the night?” Aziraphale glared back at them, gripping Crowley’s thigh with one hand. “He’s not a _library book_!”

The ensuing stare down was awkward for all parties involved except for Crowley, who quietly laughed to himself and drank his beer while Aziraphale scowled at the man and woman until they muttered something and made off to the other end of the bar.

“The audacity!” Aziraphale hissed, necking the rest of his drink before hastily ordering another, cursing himself when he forgot to mention the damn ice again.

***

“Should have bumped into them a few thousand years ago.” Crowley’s voice was hot against Aziraphale's ear as the demon leaned over his shoulder, one arm snaking around his waist and into the front pocket of his trousers, fingers stroking the angel's warm thigh through the fabric. “Might have kicked you into action a bit sooner.”

“Maybe you should have. I could have done with a wake up call.” Aziraphale let his head fall back against Crowley’s chest as he shifted to the music, missing the rhythm but not caring in the slightest.

“I used to come here to try and forget you, you know.” Crowley paused between sentences to let his teeth graze against the angel’s neck. “Had the opposite effect, of course. The things I used to think about…enough to get you sent straight to hell.”

It had been four months since that day in the cottage when Aziraphale had pledged to live a life without fear, to chase hedonism. But it was that night when he was drunk and happy, music coursing through his body, Crowley’s hips pressed against him and the demon’s voice murmuring the sweetest temptations in his ear that he felt at his most free.

“If this is what hell is like I would have led the Fallen into battle a long time ago.”

 


	32. I’ll Be Your Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You sold a book?” Aziraphale heaved out the question as if Crowley had just confessed to murder.

******November 2019. A.Z. Fell and Co., London.**

“Angel!” Crowley bounded up to Aziraphale as he entered the shop on a bustling Saturday morning. A couple of customers glanced up from the books they were looking at, quietly amused by the way the lanky new shop assistant who was unnerving for reasons they couldn’t quite explain lit up like a child on Christmas morning whenever the stuffy proprietor returned from business trips.

Aziraphale was drained. It had been six long days of exerting himself with no time to even sit down for a moment, let alone stop for a snack or a nap. He was hungry, out of habit rather than need, and desperate to escape to the tranquility of the flat but first he wanted to attend to a couple of matters at the shop and, before _that_ , he needed to take a moment to be alone with Crowley, to be able to breathe again.

Despite his exhaustion, he smiled happily at the sight of Crowley’s excitement to see him, would never tire of that rush of relief that he could smile right back, take his hand and kiss every knuckle in turn if that’s what he wanted to do. What he wanted to do in that moment, though, was allow Crowley to lead him by the hand into the back room, both angel and demon pretending not to notice the two customers raising their eyebrows at each other as if they’d just figured out a secret.

“God, I missed you.” Aziraphale pulled off his scarf and jacket, hung them up on the coat stand and walked into Crowley’s waiting arms, exhaling the biggest breath he had for days as he settled into the demon’s embrace, resting his tired head against his chest.

Crowley stroked his hair, breathing in the reassuring scent of him and relaxing in the knowledge that they were safely back together, for a moment, at least. “I sold _three_ books while you were away, angel. Must have been your busiest week ever.”

“You _sold_ a book?” Aziraphale heaved out the question as if Crowley had just confessed to murder.

“Three of them,” Crowley murmured slowly, realising there and then that perhaps Aziraphale’s comment the month before about raising the shop’s turnover was a plan for a frivolous miracle rather than actually nurturing his sales figures.

“ _Which_ books?” Aziraphale’s attempt to keep his voice even was dead on arrival, his words coming out in a frantic jumble as he leaned out of the back room to scan the shelves, trying to pinpoint which of his beloved titles had been abandoned to the masses. “Not the poetry, Crowley, please.”

“I…I can’t remember.” The demon shrugged. “They complimented my glasses and then I couldn’t very well say no, could I?”

Aziraphale tried to suppress a smile, which failed, of course. It was hard to do much of anything other than smile when Crowley had that sweet look on his face. “You’re supposed to be the demon, impervious to comments about…aesthetics.”

“Said they made me look suave.” Crowley nodded proudly, before his face fell when the clock chimed behind them. “I’ve got to dash, angel, got a date with hell.”

They folded back into each other then, all discussion about Aziraphale’s depleted collection abandoned. It always seemed the greatest risk, Crowley returning to hell, as if every goodbye could be the last. To try and circumvent final goodbyes they had stopped saying the word all together, substituting it with _see you soon_ , _won’t be long_ , _I’ll see you at home later_.

“Good luck,” Aziraphale whispered, sliding his hands up to Crowley’s shoulder blades as they held each other. Words hung unspoken in the air, as they always did when heaven and hell were involved; the consequences of one misstep were hard to forget. “I love you, even if you did sell a book.”

“Three.” Crowley corrected him, leaning down for a quick kiss. “I love you, angel, I’ll be back home in time for dinner, promise.”

***

“It’s been two months, Crowley.” Dagon stared down at the water stained paperwork in front of them and sighed, finally looking up at Crowley and shooting him a look of disbelief. “No souls. Not one. What the hell have you been doing?”

Since Beelzebub had been tasked with the dubious honour of serving as Satan’s right hand in the lead up to the Rapture, Dagon had taken over responsibility for appraising hell’s representatives. Crowley had learned after their first meeting that the trick was to pop a stick of menthol chewing gum in his mouth shortly before entering the office; kept most of the smell at bay, at least. There wasn’t much he could do to combat the consistent drips of water that splashed down from the ceiling. There were a few token buckets on the floor throughout the cramped office but it was a fruitless endeavour, given that the splashes of salt water followed Dagon into whichever room they happened to be in.

“I’ve been…laying foundations,” Crowley said, summoning up enough earnest conviction that he hoped it sounded believable. “Another one of my long games to wreak maximum havoc on the old human race. Remember the M25? You loved that one, didn’t you?”

Dagon blinked once, twice, their face utterly devoid of emotion.

“If humanity loves anything it’s convenience. I’ve told you that before, haven’t I? We’ve got to move with the times; minor temptations, targeting one soul at a time, that’s…it’s _outdated_. Heaven, you know, they got on the mass miracle bandwagon centuries ago.”

Crowley noted the way the demon sitting opposite him prickled at the mere mention of heaven potentially outclassing them. Ah, that was the right thing to say then.

“Think of my latest work as the next phase of hell’s complete domination of humanity’s transport system…”

He launched into his pre-written spiel about the one way system he was bringing to fruition in Soho’s already murderously busy streets, how his plan would bring about a hotbed of evil, endless low level frustration that would build and build until all of Soho would be gripped with unparalleled rage. Dagon leaned forward with interest right about the time he mentioned all the drinking spots in Soho, all the debauchery, that the place was ripe for _accidents_ after well-placed temptations. He hoped it had been enough to whet their appetite, that it would buy him some time, another few months of excuses about why he wasn’t meeting his quota.

“All I must ask for is your patience. You know how humanity can be with their paperwork, don’t have things running as efficiently as we do down here, I can tell you.” He forced a smile, hoped it didn’t read as too sarcastic, wasn’t sure if Dagon even understood the meaning of sarcasm either way. “It will be worth the wait. Within a month of it opening, that one corner of the city will bring you enough souls that they’ll have to queue for the sulphur pits.”

“Yes, all right. Very good, Crowley.” Dagon’s voice was bored, as it always was, whether they were delivering news of an upcoming extinction by holy water or dismissing a demon at the end of an appraisal.

Crowley stood to leave, making for the door on shaking legs as he counted down the seconds until he could hotfoot it back to paradise. 

“Crowley, just a minute.”

As his hand reached for the door handle, Crowley felt his heart sink. He pasted on a smile and turned back to the demon sitting behind the makeshift desk.

“You’re not any _better_ than the rest of us. You do remember what you are, don’t you? Ten souls before we meet again, and that’s me being generous.”

***

Aziraphale had been trying his best not to be so frantic all the time. _Chill out_ was the lovely expression humans liked to use, as though worrying was something that heated you up from the inside, boiling away logic and common sense until there was nothing left but imagined catastrophe. 

He was getting better at it, chilling out, but the one spate of worrying he couldn’t overcome was the churning sense of dread whenever Crowley had to return to hell. It was the fear that one day he might just…never come back. Fear drove worry, as it always did, and fear had always been the perfect tool with which to control Aziraphale. It was what had kept him faithful to heaven for so long, the fear that being cast out would be the ultimate shame. He was starting to think, though, albeit incredibly slowly, that perhaps that wasn’t the worst thing, perhaps the worst thing was living a life of fear, cowed by heaven, compliant and afraid. Perhaps fear _itself_ was the worst thing.

Aziraphale had been fighting his battle against fear for even longer than he fought his feelings for Crowley. His new life, built on happiness and desire, was to stand bravely in the face of fear and it allowed his mind to travel to places previously left unimagined, as if the very nature of exploring the forbidden was a rebellion in itself.

He tried to keep the R+R programme out of his thoughts as far as he could, delaying the inevitable conversation they would have to have when Crowley made up his mind about what to do. He had sworn to leave the decision-making up to him and it was a promise he had no intention of breaking. What he had never said, though, is that he wouldn’t let himself escape in the daydream of what life might be like if it all did work out for the best.

Eternal paradise without the other half of your soul didn’t sound much like paradise at all. Ah, but with them by your side, eternity stretching out full of possibility? That was a different matter. When Aziraphale needed to believe that Crowley would return from hell, when he needed to _chill out_ , as it were, he allowed himself the distraction of dreaming of life in heaven with Crowley by his side.

It usually did the trick, helped pass the time until he felt Crowley’s presence a moment before the front door to the flat swung open. Today it wasn’t helping. Today he couldn’t get past imagining Crowley standing on stage, up there in front of Gabriel and Michael, being forced to confess his sins to angels who didn’t deserve for him to read them the phonebook, let alone admit his darkest secrets. It was sickening. Heaven had broken them when they fell and it seemed they intended to break them one more time before administering whatever their idea of forgiveness was. 

He felt him then, a rush of energy, and then the heavy click of the door unlocking. This time there wasn’t the usual swell of relief, this time there was only darkness and despair, the way there always used to be.

“What happened?” Aziraphale appeared in the doorway to the living room, taking Crowley’s jacket and hanging it on the statue as he handed it over in silence.

“ _Hell_ happened,” Crowley sighed, flopping down onto the sofa and closing his eyes, fingers steepled against his temples. “Thought I’d bought myself enough time to get to… _Fuck_. They’ll never let me back in, angel, I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”

“Crowley, what happened down there?” Aziraphale sat down next to him, squeezed one of his hands in what seemed the most pathetic attempt at comfort he could conceive.

“Managed to outsmart them so many times, just about caught up with me. Not enough demonic activity apparently, no souls against my name in two months. Ten souls, that’s the next quota. Do you know I used to do double that in a day? In an hour, sometimes. Didn’t think anything of it. That’s the trick, to survive hell, don’t ever see them as anything other than numbers. Impossible, though, after a while. They always said I spent too much time up here, was too _soft_. I can’t…I can’t do it, angel. I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be this any more.”

“I’ll do it.” Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure where he’d begin, how one went about _mischief_ that resulted in souls being claimed for hell. The temptations Crowley had tasked him with in the past were pared back, nothing more than minor frustrations for humanity, nothing like the work hell was demanding of him now. What he did know, however, is that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to take even a fraction of this burden away from the demon sitting quietly by his side.

“No.” Crowley’s voice was firm but there was warmth in it, gratitude for the offer that he would never accept. “No, Aziraphale, you don’t know what this would do to you. It’s not like…the things you’ve done before. When heaven cast me out I didn’t feel evil, not at first. I felt empty, I felt numbness, I felt like I would never be able to recognise beauty again, but I didn’t feel evil. That came later, after taking a life. It was like snuffing out a light.”

Silence then, both angel and demon lost to their own thoughts, until Crowley spoke again, his voice taking on that dreamlike quality as if his words were a memory in Aziraphale’s mind.

“You always used to ask me what it was like to fall, what happened to me. And I would never tell you, would I? I never understood why you wanted to know. I didn’t change on the day I fell, you don’t just stop being an angel because Gabriel tells you you’re something else now. He can’t take that away. Nobody can. I’m still an angel underneath, if you scraped away what hell has done to me. I still feel what you feel, it all comes back to love, except instead of the world seeing me the way they see you: reassuring, innately trustworthy, the very embodiment of _good_ , they see me as something dark, something dangerous, something that wants to tear them apart. You wonder why I want to get back to heaven, angel, I just want the world to see me as something other than evil.”

“You are good, Crowley, you are _so_ good. How did you keep your heart through all of this?”

Crowley looked at him, eyes tired and full and dark with suffering Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to understand. “I had something to hold on for. I had you, angel. You saved me, and you didn’t even know it.”

“We saved each other.” Aziraphale took his other hand, shifting closer to him until they were too wrapped up in each other for heaven or hell or anything in between to tear them apart. “You will never have to go back there, Crowley. I told you it’s me and you, together, always. You will never have to face this alone again.”

As an angel and a demon softly let themselves dream of a life free from judgement and fear, they failed to notice the first flakes of snow drift down from the sky, draping themselves over everything they touched, clean and perfect, like a new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up (coming tomorrow or Friday): it's CHRISTMAS in London! Jingle bells and bucks fizz and perhaps a festive miracle or two...


	33. White Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have literally no idea what I’m doing,” Crowley confessed, pulling the gravy-stained apron over his head to reveal his own Christmas jumper, chosen lovingly by Aziraphale, who declared he would look just adorable in it.

**Christmas Day, 2019. The Love Nest, Soho.**

Christmas morning in Soho dawned with the ethereal glow of freshly fallen snow. Soft drifts lined the streets, gently banked up on windowsills ready for the world to pull back their curtains and laugh in glee at the rarest but most wonderful of sights: a white Christmas.

The newsreaders that morning called it a last minute gift from Father Christmas, more unsavoury world leaders used it as evidence that global warming couldn’t possibly be a _thing_ , but it all came back to an angel and a demon standing at a twelfth floor window on Christmas Eve, hands curled around glasses of spicy mulled wine as they looked up at the sky and willed that most elusive Christmas miracle into existence across the city of London.

“Happy Christmas.” Aziraphale opened his eyes while it was still dark outside, felt Crowley stir next to him as he rolled onto his side.

“Happy Christmas, angel.” He leaned across to meet Aziraphale halfway in a kiss, cocooned under a mass of blankets, softly lit by the rhythmic flash of golden white lights that were draped messily over the Christmas tree that stood, vaguely slanted, in the corner of the room.

Crowley had done it to ignite Aziraphale’s fretting about neatness, if he was honest, which was something he found unspeakable adorable. He’d rampaged through the flat sweeping Christmas cheer over every conceivable surface. There was no order to his festive mayhem, no colour scheme, not much of anything other than tinsel and glitter and so many flashing lights that it was a possibility the Love Nest could be seen from space.

To his surprise, Aziraphale hadn’t razed the entire building to the ground when he’d walked in two weeks previously to find Crowley literally hurling fistfuls of red and green glitter into the air in order to ‘festive up’ the rug in the living room. In fact, what he had done was stride across the room to kiss Crowley with a passion that had left the demon’s head spinning. He hadn’t even rolled his eyes when he noticed the angel on top of the tree had been replaced with a porcelain devil in a Santa hat.

A perfectly mundane Christmas, that’s what they’d decided. After all, it was their first Christmas together, the first Christmas either of them had celebrated at all, in fact. In the past Crowley had tended to sleep through the weeks surrounding Christmas, giving heaven a reprieve from demonic mischief and allowing Aziraphale free rein to spread peace and joy and good feeling wherever he desired.

They lay together in bed, blankets kicked back, Crowley’s back against the headboard and Aziraphale’s head resting in his lap while the demon absent-mindedly played with his hair. As the sun threatened to make an appearance and London began to wake up, excitement wound its way through the building as more and more families peeked out of the windows to see the snow. Shrieks of delight were accompanied by footsteps thundering through the corridors outside the flat, children scrambling to get out into the street as quickly as possible just to make sure it was real, it really _had_ snowed.

“We did that,” Aziraphale murmured the words into Crowley’s thigh, smiling happily as the demon’s fingers raked gently against his scalp. “Seem to do a lot of good when we work together, don’t we?”

“Celestial dream team.” Crowley laughed, closing his eyes and listening to the joy radiate through the building. Something good. Something to make people happy, for once.

***

“Tradition,” Aziraphale explained, bustling back into the room and handing Crowley a delicate flute of bucks fizz, the fresh smell of oranges rising in the air. In the other hand he held a plate of bacon sandwiches teetering precariously on top of each other.

“Bucks fizz and bacon sandwiches, never heard of that one before.”

“Well, it’s our tradition now.” The angel slipped back into bed, taking a swig from his glass as he did so. “Just like snow on Christmas morning and waking up with you and trying to find the most awful Christmas jumpers possible.”

“Speaking of which.” Crowley tugged open the drawer of his bedside table and pulled out a neatly folded jumper. He passed it to Aziraphale and leaned back to watch his reaction, unable to hide a smile as the angel excitedly unfurled the jumper and looked on in horror.

“ _Crowley_.” Aziraphale slapped him gently on his bare chest, tried to keep up the appearance of disapproval as he took in the jumper’s knitted Santa figure with flashing red LEDs for eyes, the cheerily stitched text across the front that bore the ominous message _He sees you when you’re sleeping_. He slipped it over his head and turned to face the demon. “How do I look?”

“Positively devilish.” Crowley ran a finger along the neckline of the jumper, hooked it over and tugged gently on the soft fabric to pull Aziraphale close to him. “If heaven could see you now.”

“I wish they could,” Aziraphale breathed the words against Crowley’s neck, his jaw and, finally, his lips. “Can you imagine the look on Gabriel’s face. Christmas morning in bed with a demon.”

“ _The_ demon, I think you’ll find.” He laughed, fingers pressing Aziraphale’s shoulder down against the mattress as he swung one leg lazily over the angel’s hips, his other hand reaching down to slide up underneath the jumper, fingers trailing gently over the warm skin of his stomach. “Time for one more tradition before you have to go?”

***

“I’ll be back soon,” Aziraphale had promised, leaning in for one final kiss before he shrugged into his coat and left Crowley alone to prepare lunch.

Work never stopped for angels, especially not at Christmas, but Aziraphale had decided to take it easy that day, be selfish for once. Just a few quick miracles, he’d said, popping on the cream tartan-rimmed Santa hat Crowley had given him that morning. There had been a rule of one present each; it had to cost less than five pounds and it wasn’t allowed to be functional, it had to be fun. Crowley had thought a tartan-clad Santa hat ranked pretty low on the functional scale but Aziraphale had taken a worrying shine to it; in fact, it was wholly possible it might become part of his regular attire. Crowley had made a mental note to find a hiding place for it to lay dormant until the next festive season arrived.

Aziraphale’s gift to Crowley was nothing if not on brand. He’d unboxed the Christmas cactus with a look of abject glee on his face, had traced a finger along one of the verdant trailing limbs and felt the velvety soft pink petals that bloomed just in time for Christmas each year.

“Angel, this is perfect.”

Aziraphale had beamed at his reaction, then took the plant pot out of his hands and hopped out of bed, promising to find the perfect spot for it. It was only a moment later, when Crowley was staring up at the ceiling wondering how it was possible for a day to be so crammed with happiness before mid-morning, that he heard Aziraphale’s voice filter in from the other room.

“Look at you, darling, you’re radiant. And you, is that a new leaf I see? Spectacular. You really are such a…”

“ _Aziraphale!_ ”

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale stopped dead, dropping his hand from the plant he’d been busy praising. He turned to face Crowley, his expression one of somebody who had absolutely no idea why their name might have just been hissed into the ether, no idea at all…

“Were you _cooing_ over the plants?” Crowley took two languid steps towards him, looking accusingly from Aziraphale to the echeveria he had been speaking to. “You know how I feel about cooing.”

“I, er, wouldn’t dream of it. No cooing here. Here, take the mister, do some scowling.” Aziraphale handed him the plant mister, smiling innocently, but Crowley could have sworn he saw him turn and wink at the plants when he thought he wasn’t being watched.

***

Crowley was singing along to Driving Home For Christmas and giving the gravy a final stir when Aziraphale returned from his morning of work, nose red and cheeks flushed from the frosty air outside.

“Ready in five minutes,” he called over his shoulder as Aziraphale slipped into the bedroom, closing the door hastily behind him. _Unusual_ , Crowley thought, but then the timer for the potatoes went off and he turned his attention back to lunch, turning the volume on the speakers up a notch.

One of the side effects of not hibernating through the Christmas season was the discovery of Christmas music, something Crowley had developed a real penchant for. His carefully crafted playlist of Christmas songs had been the Love Nest's unabated soundtrack since December had arrived and he was almost word perfect. Aziraphale had slipped some carols on there, naturally, and Crowley tried his best not to skip them, at least not when the angel was in the flat, lest he come tutting out of the bedroom enquiring as to why O Come, All Ye Faithful had been skipped in favour of Fairytale of New York.

“Right, what can I do?” Aziraphale appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed in his Christmas jumper, Santa hat skewed on his head. “Good God, this smells incredible.”

“I have literally no idea what I’m doing,” Crowley confessed, pulling the gravy-stained apron over his head to reveal his own Christmas jumper, chosen lovingly by Aziraphale, who declared he would look _just adorable_ in it. The thick red jumper was covered in fluffy green and white pom poms, while the knitted cartoon robin dressed as a Christmas pudding that was emblazoned across the front was the star of the show.

They ferried the huge golden turkey and heaving bowls of potatoes and stuffing and vegetables to and fro until the little dining table set up by the living room windows was groaning under the weight of it all.

“Chuck us one of those devils on horseback,” Crowley asked, reaching out his fork to spear one of the bacon-wrapped dates that had taken him far longer to assemble than he cared to admit. It was worth it though, the mouthful of salty sweetness bordering on intoxicating.

“No _angels_ on horseback I notice,” Aziraphale commented, smiling teasingly as he popped a forkful of turkey into his mouth.

Crowley had considered it, thought it would be festively saccharine to have both angels and devils nestled side by side on the plate. It wasn’t until he looked up the ingredients and discovered that dreaded oysters were involved that he decided to make the side dish purely demonic.

***

“Can you pass me the After Eights?” Aziraphale paused as he heard a small sniffle disguised as a cough come from the other end of the sofa, where Crowley was curled up around a box of chocolates, eyes conveniently hidden under his sunglasses as the credits of The Snowman rolled on the TV. “Crowley, are you…”

“I’m _not_ crying,” he snapped, thrusting the dark green box into Aziraphale’s lap.

Aziraphale reached under the blankets to rub his calf, trying not to smile. “It’s all right if you were, apparently only the most stony-hearted humans can make it all the way through without shedding a tear.”

“It’s the music that got me. Wasn’t crying, though.” He waited until he was sure Aziraphale wasn’t looking and ran a quick finger under each eye before taking off his glasses. “Since when were you so stony-hearted anyway? Let’s not forget the day you got misty-eyed over that caterpillar on the windowsill.”

“Since I cried over the ending every year since 1982. Never miss The Snowman, that’s the one tradition I’ve managed to keep up all these years. There’s the sequel too, we’ll stick that on later, might want a hanky for that one.”

Crowley gave him a withering look, reached out to take another chocolate from the box that was now more empty black wrappers than anything else. Before he took a bite, Aziraphale held up a finger as if he’d just remembered something terribly important.

“Before that, one last thing I have to give you.”

“ _Angel._ ” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Less than five pounds, we promised.”

Aziraphale gave him a satisfied smile, raising one eyebrow as he headed for the bedroom. “This didn’t cost a penny.”

A moment later Crowley heard Aziraphale call his name gently across the room, turned to find the angel walking slowly out of the bedroom with a chubby, midnight black puppy squirming in his arms.

“It’s just for today, I’m afraid,” he murmured apologetically. “Have to give him back tomorrow but I thought, perhaps, as it’s Christmas...well, this is Barnaby.”

Aziraphale knelt down, opened his arms and let the puppy stumble free. His long black tail trailed behind him as he took a few tentative steps forward. Huge black ears almost but not quite stood to attention, one flopping over as he galloped across the room towards Crowley.

“Aziraphale…" Crowley looked up in disbelief as he crouched low to the ground, stretched out one trembling hand.

“Let him come to you,” Aziraphale said encouragingly, settling down on the sofa and watching as Barnaby tripped over his own feet and tumbled to the ground, a tangle of paws and black fluff. He righted himself and then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, trotted up to Crowley and sniffed his hand.

The first sensation that Crowley felt was a damp nose snuffling against his palm, followed by soft whiskers tickling his skin and then, finally, the tiniest lick against the back of his hand. He looked across at Aziraphale in wonder, eyes wide and nervous as he carefully brought his other hand down to stroke Barnaby’s soft fur from his neck down to his shoulder. The puppy barked happily in response, tail whipping back and forth as he barrelled into Crowley’s lap and rested two black paws on his thighs, head straining up to reach the demon’s face.

“He’s so soft.” Crowley stroked him once, twice more, laughing in glee as the puppy tried to scramble up the front of his jumper to lick his face. He slid both hands under the puppy’s armpits to gingerly pick him up, felt the wriggling weight of him as he paddled forwards with two paws and licked his cheek. “Angel, how did you…how?”

Aziraphale joined them then, sitting cross-legged on the floor as Barnaby knocked Crowley off balance and sent him rocking backwards onto the floor, head resting on Aziraphale’s knee as the puppy found a comfortable spot on his chest and laid down, paws draped on either side of the demon’s neck.

“Let’s call it a Christmas miracle.” Aziraphale leaned down, pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead that was cut short by Barnaby barking excitedly in the angel’s ear. “Happy Christmas, my love.”

***

Crowley was in love. With Aziraphale, of course, but also with a dark-eyed, furry little menace called Barnaby who had resolutely refused to leave his side all afternoon. Wherever Crowley went, Barnaby followed, cantering alongside him like a miniature shadow.

Aziraphale watched them from the sofa, hand warmed by a glass of mulled wine that conveniently never ran empty, heart warmed at the sight of Crowley’s blissful smile, beyond any realm of happiness he’d ever seen. He’d waited all that time for something so simple, and it filled Aziraphale with emotion that was somehow both joyful and heartbreaking.

“Angel, look.” Crowley curled one hand around Aziraphale’s knee while the other held a hastily miracled dog treat up to his chest. “Barnaby, _sit_.”

The puppy looked from Crowley to the treat, then from the treat to Crowley. Finally, he plopped onto the ground, back legs splayed as his tail thumped in between them.

“I think he might be a genius.” Crowley tossed him the treat which he did not, in fact, catch in the air. It ricocheted off of his nose but he found it eventually, hoovering his way around the floor until he came across it.

“He reminded me of you,” Aziraphale said dreamily, as Crowley scooted across the floor until he was sitting back against the edge of the sofa, the angel’s arm dangling down around his shoulders. In front of them, Barnaby was locked in a fierce battle with a stray fly that buzzed around his head. “So sweet, look at him.”

By the time the sun had set on another Christmas day and the moon had raised her head, Crowley and Aziraphale were spread-eagled on the sofa, Barnaby curled up on the demon’s lap. As they drank their way through too much mulled wine and ate their way through an inhuman amount of cheese and biscuits, It’s A Wonderful Life played on the TV. Neither had seen the film before but it had topped a poll of the all-time greatest Christmas films, so they’d decided to give it a go.

“Preposterous,” Aziraphale scoffed through a mouthful of stilton, spraying cracker crumbs into the air.

“D’you reckon he was a principality?” Crowley asked, his words running into each other on account of the miraculously refillable wine. “Angel, second class, that’s what they said. Is that what you are?”

“You cannot earn the title with a _single_ act, honestly. As if it was that simple. And we’re third sphere, thank you very much.” Aziraphale always huffed when humanity simplified heaven’s overtly complex angelic hierarchy. Crowley found the whole thing hilarious, made it a side mission to expose the angel to as much erroneous angelology as possible.

By the time a bell rang out on the TV screen to announce that an angel _had_ just earned its wings, all three occupants of the Love Nest were dozing on the sofa, lit solely by the faint blue glow from the DVD menu. Crowley woke with a start from a dream he wished to forget as soon as he opened his eyes, gently stroked Aziraphale’s cheek to rouse him.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale stirred, head inclining down to meet Crowley’s touch. He looked up to find Crowley standing over him, Barnaby flopped and sleepy against his chest. “Carry me as well.”

“When you’re this cute I’ll carry you anywhere.”

“Hey!” Aziraphale called after him. “I take offence to that.”

Crowley appeared in the doorway a moment later, a wicked grin on his face. “Be careful what you wish for, angel.”

“Crowley, what are you-” Aziraphale was cut off mid-sentence as the demon stooped low to reach one hand under his thighs and the other around his back. “No, no, no! What are you doing? Put me down!”

His feet left the ground as Crowley smoothly swung him into the air and jostled him slightly until he was tucked against the demon’s chest like any self-respecting angel sharing his first Christmas shacked up with the infernal enemy should be.

“I believe,” Crowley paused to stagger a couple of steps forward, “that this is another tradition we missed out on when we moved in here.”

Aziraphale laced his fingers behind Crowley’s neck and allowed himself to be carried, judderingly, over towards the threshold of their bedroom. He chose to ignore the faint puffing sounds coming from behind his head. “Before you say anything, it wouldn’t have been so laborious if you hadn’t done such an excellent job with lunch. And the dessert. And the cheeseboard.”

“Not laborious at all.” Crowley’s words came out as a breathless pant. “Like carrying a…feather. Perfect, just as you are.”

***

“I wish we could keep him,” Crowley whispered, running a finger across Barnaby’s head to smooth down a stray lick of fur. The puppy had curled up in between them, yawned widely, and settled down to sleep, looking as peaceful as any angel as he snored softly in the darkness.

Aziraphale reached carefully over the puppy’s sleeping body to cup Crowley’s face in his hand. “In another life we’d have a house full of them. More puppies than you could count. The neighbours would think we were mad. We’d be those two strange fellows who always seemed to be smiling, followed around by a pack of dogs.”

Crowley smiled at the idea, thinking it sounded a lot like paradise. They weren’t in paradise though, not yet, this was reality. “By morning he’ll be scared of me, won’t he?”

“I’ll take him back before you wake up.” Aziraphale’s lips found his in the dark, kissed him softly, wondered if it was possible to ever grow tired of the thrill it gave him.

***

Aziraphale was one breath away from sleep when he heard Crowley’s voice punctuate the night, quiet but steady.

“Angel. I’ve decided to do it. I’m going to apply for the R+R programme.”

Aziraphale felt his jaw clench, forced himself to take a calming breath before he spoke. He had sworn it would be Crowley’s decision to make, that he would support him no matter what. He wasn’t sure if the alternative decision would have been any better, he just knew that in that moment his heart pounded with his old nemesis: fear.

As if he could read his mind, and sometimes Aziraphale thought maybe he could, Crowley continued. “We’ve let fear get the best of us for so long, we have to believe this can work. I can’t say goodbye to you again.”

“Whatever we do, Crowley, we do together.”

Aziraphale reached out for him, their fingers entwining in the darkness. He felt the pulse in Crowley’s thumb beat, beat, beat against his own, knew then that the demon was right. They had made it this far by refusing to say goodbye and there was hope in that, all the millions of ways they’d held onto each other through everything. Armageddon had felt impossible to overcome when they were there in the moment, staring down evil, but they had managed it. Somehow. Whether it was madness or bravery, they had to try one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fare thee well, act three! Act four kicks off on Sunday night - the FINAL act of part one. Rapture 2020 is afoot! First up...an angel, a demon and airport security.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me for this long, hope you're all still enjoying it <3
> 
> I've also put together a little playlist that ties in with acts 1-3 (I hope you like whiny 90s British music...!). Songs mostly correspond to chapter titles except:  
> Bound = Crowley in the metal club in chapter 9  
> I Miss You = General angst of chapters 17-18  
> Love is a Mystery = I think of this as Crowley's theme for the section at the end of chapter 20  
> Drink Up = Aziraphale's Big Night Out
> 
> Playlist here! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1wxfi6ieeHce1rHRSwlKDY?si=EjjzcT6NSxC9Yza5wacUSQ


	34. Happy Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We were woefully unprepared for this, angel.” Crowley slung his bag on top of a bin and began rifling through it in search of any offending liquids before they braved the chaos of security checks.

**January 2020. Terminal 2, Heathrow.**

“ _Closer_ , Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice rang out across the busy terminal as he smashed his cheek against Crowley’s and held the phone aloft in front of them, taking a blurry selfie that came out as nothing more than a cream and black haze on the screen. Sighing, Crowley fished his own phone out of his pocket and snapped a second picture of the two of them, this time in focus, tapping the screen to share it to their joint folder before slipping it back into his pocket.

“Bureaucracy,” Crowley hissed quietly, glaring over his shoulder at the check in desks that lay behind them. “Gives hell a run for its money, this place.”

Crowley was in a foul mood, something Aziraphale was utterly oblivious to as he led him through the airport, pausing every few feet to take a picture of them together. _We have no photos of us_ , he’d complained, citing their first foray into aviation as the perfect excuse to make up for lost time. Despite his simmering impatience towards the airport’s processes and regulations, Crowley couldn’t say no to Aziraphale’s sweet insistence on documenting every second of their trip through his phone, even if every image he took looked like it had been taken underwater.

There had been a minor drama earlier that morning when it looked as though their train to the airport might be cancelled due to that catch-all excuse of _signal failure_ and Aziraphale had casually reiterated the possibility of travelling in the Bentley.

“Leave it parked in an airport car park for two days?” Crowley had asked incredulously, before snapping his fingers and nodding in satisfaction when the train came rumbling into the station right on time.

“We need to be careful, Crowley,” Aziraphale had warned. Crowley’s increasing use of frivolous miracles had not gone unnoticed but the demon had shrugged when it was picked up on, reminded Aziraphale the Rapture was coming in a few short months so they might as well make the most of their last months on Earth. He had a point, the angel had to admit.

His latest grouch had stemmed from the polite request to remove his sunglasses at the check in desk.

“Policy, sir, I’m afraid,” the check in attendant had explained, after Crowley had looked across at Aziraphale in panic. This was something they hadn’t anticipated, neither of them having a clue how airports worked. Up until that moment he’d assumed it was similar to taking a train.

“But…we’ve already bought our tickets,” Crowley repeated, as if saying the words again would help jog her memory into realising such arbitrary things as passport control and airport security weren’t _really_ necessary.

“I understand that, sir, but I need you to remove your sunglasses and hand over your passport so I can verify your identity.”

Crowley pulled out his wallet, began flicking through the cards. “I have a driving license somewhere. Maybe. Might be a few decades out of date. Might be a Tesco Clubcard, who knows.”

“ _Sir_.” There was a warning to her voice this time, and Crowley rolled his eyes (beneath his glasses, naturally) and fixed her with a look until a dreamlike expression came over her face and she handed back his hastily miracled passport with a smile. “Here you are, sir, have a pleasant flight.”

***

“We’re woefully unprepared for this, angel.” Crowley slung his bag on top of a bin and began rifling through it in search of any offending liquids before they braved the chaos of security checks. “How do humans do this every time they want to leave the country?”

“There are rather a lot of hoops to jump through,” Aziraphale admitted, passing Crowley a regulation plastic bag as the demon attempted to shove a full-sized bottle of shampoo into it.

“This isn’t going to work. Have they got anything bigger?”

“One size fits all, apparently. And, er, one bag per traveller according to the sign.” Aziraphale squinted up at the plastic sign above them that explained the rules in stark white text. “Think we might have over-egged the pudding on the old toiletry front. I told you we didn’t need all this, we’re only there for two nights.”

“Yes, I _know_. I like the way it makes my hair smell.” Crowley admitted defeat and upended his washbag over the bin, reaching out a hand last minute to grab Aziraphale’s cologne out of mid-air before it disappeared. “This stays.”

***

“Any electrical devices in your pockets, sir?”

“Yeah, just my phone.” Crowley watched his bag disappear down the conveyor belt and then turned to stroll through the security scanner alongside Aziraphale.

“Excuse me, you need to put it in a box before you go through. We scan devices separately.” The security official pulled one of the cream plastic crates off of the stack next to him and gestured for Crowley to deposit his phone in it. He obeyed, despite his rising annoyance, wanted to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. It set him on edge, rules and guidelines that everybody besides him seemed to understand. Bad memories.

With Aziraphale’s cologne nestled in its transparent bag and his bag and phone juddering down the conveyor belt, Crowley was ushered into one of the two body scanners. In the next door booth, Aziraphale appeared to be causing a mild commotion. He tried to lean out to listen into the hushed conversation taking place in Aziraphale’s booth but then an older lady with a very official looking lanyard around her neck asked him to stand with his feet apart, hands up on either side of his head.

“That’s odd,” she murmured, looking down at the screen in front of her, something darkening in her expression. “Can you try it again for me, sir? No…there’s something not quite right here. Can you step out here for me for a moment?”

Crowley did as he was told, looked over to see Aziraphale being taken off to the other side of the area at the same time. _Well, this can’t be good_ , he thought, preparing himself to perform yet another miraculous intervention.

The security attendant explained about the pat-down procedure and Crowley nodded along, only half-listening, as she waved over a male colleague and passed him a large grey device that didn’t look a million miles away from a magic wand.

“Hands up, please,” the man asked, running the device over Crowley’s arms, chest and back (an area he paid particular attention to, the demon noted), before crouching down and running a hand briskly up each of his legs.

“At least buy me dinner first,” Crowley muttered, looking over his shoulder to find Aziraphale handing over his jacket so it could be passed through the scanner. The angel caught his eye and shrugged, as if he was equally as lost as Crowley was.

A moment later, the security attendant who had been dealing with Aziraphale bustled over and leaned in close to speak to the two attendants who were staring at Crowley’s body scan, looking utterly confused.

“My machine, it’s…there’s something wrong.”

“This one’s on the blink too, must be the processor.”

Taking the opportunity while they were lost in conversation, Crowley leaned forward to peek at the image displayed on the screen. _Ah_ , he nodded to himself, finally understanding, _that’ll do it._

“Are we all done here?” he asked, already knowing what the answer would be. Just one more little miracle, couldn’t hurt.

“Yes, of course. Thank you for your patience, sir.”

Crowley smiled at them before retrieving his bag and phone, and nodding for Aziraphale to follow him before anybody could stop them to ask why, exactly, they both seemed to have _wings_.

***

**January 2020. Somewhere vaguely over the Faroe Islands.**

“Angel, calm down, I won’t let us crash. I promise.” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s knee reassuringly, tried to hold in a laugh as the angel next to him slammed forward into the brace position.

“Crowley, I have to get off. Ask them to stop. I hate this. I don’t know why I put this on the list, it was a moment of madness.” Aziraphale’s voice grew louder as panic set in and he peeked through the gap between his shoulder and wrist.

Crowley gently took his hand and pulled it away from his head. “You don’t need to brace unless we’re going down.”

“How can you be so sure this is safe?” the angel snapped, looking warily past Crowley to steal a terrified glance out of the window, where nothing but perfectly fluffy white clouds were visible. “This isn’t _natural_.”

“An angel and a demon are flying, economy, I might add, to Iceland on a pre-Rapture romantic getaway and you’re concerned about what’s natural?”

“I’m serious, Crowley. This isn’t…why are you _laughing_? We could crash at any moment!”

Aziraphale had barely finished bellowing about their imminent demise when a tall, blonde air hostess leaned into their row with a sharp look on her face.

“Sirs, I won’t tell you again, you’re unsettling the other travellers.”

“I’m sorry, madam.” Crowley leaned over Aziraphale, casually holding a hand over the angel’s mouth before he could scream about fictional turbulence. “He’s a nervous flier.”

“How are you so calm?” Aziraphale turned to him once they were safely alone.

Crowley shrugged, casually rattling the ice cubes in an otherwise empty glass that had contained a double measure of whiskey just after take off. “Twice as effective in the air, didn’t you read the brochure?”

***

“Look at it.” Crowley’s voice was soft with wonder, fingers pressed against the oblong window as they stared down at the snowy wilds below as they began their descent. “And you suggested we fly to _Luton_.”

“It’s rather sparse, isn’t it?” Aziraphale observed, risking a quick look down at the bleak white landscape, shot through with streaks of grey and small clusters of pale green forests.

“Yes, all right, you try populating the entire globe with greenery. I was bloody knackered by that point.”

***

**January 2020. Reykjavik, Iceland.**

“Think of it as Iceland’s answer to oysters.”

Crowley tried his best to be a _good_ demon, or perhaps that made him a bad demon, sometimes the correct phrasing eluded him. Either way, he tried his best to exist in relative harmony with the world around him but there was something about that golden-haired angel he called his better half that brought out his devilish side. After so many thousands of years of slurping his way through oysters that Aziraphale _promised_ were delicious, he was ready for sweet revenge.

When they’d settled on Iceland as their destination Crowley had started idle research into how they could fill their flying visit. With a little less than a week in the country they needed to be economical with their time, so he’d taken inspiration from a few _Must Do In Iceland_ lists he’d found online.

Hákarl was the Icelandic name for it, sounding a little more enticing in the native tongue than calling it what it was in English: fermented shark. Recognised as one of the most foul foods humanity had ever dreamed up, with the taste falling somewhere between bleach and rotten fish, the cogs in Crowley’s demonic mind had begun to tick and, so, no sooner had they arrived at their hotel he suggested hitting the city to try the traditional tourist snack. Aziraphale, with his innate trust that Crowley was, at heart, a little bit of a good person, sat happily opposite him waiting for the _tasty_ appetiser to arrive.

“Gentlemen.” The waiter placed the bowl of white, gelatinous cubes in front of them and gave Crowley a dubious glance, before retreating back to the kitchen.

“Bit of a whiff, eh?” Aziraphale leaned in, sniffing the bowl and wrinkling his nose when the sour and unmistakeable tang of urine wafted up to meet him. He skewered a single piece, which came free from the others with a moist sucking sound, and eyed it warily. “This isn’t a trick, is it, Crowley?”

“Would I?” Crowley asked innocently, fluttering his lashes as he reached out to stroke Aziraphale’s forearm through his jacket.

“Well, then, bottoms up.” As easily as if it was a cube of cheese, Aziraphale popped the shark into his mouth, chewed for a moment and swallowed. Crowley leaned forward, waiting to cackle victoriously at mischief well-executed, when the angel clapped his hands together in glee and went in for another piece.

Crowley sat there, dumb-founded, as Aziraphale munched his way through piece after piece, the rancid smell of ammonia hanging in the air between them like a poisonous fog. Eventually he impaled the last piece on his fork and held it out Crowley with an expectant look on his face.

“I'm so sorry, where on Earth are my manners? You have to try this.”

Vomiting was a uniquely human trait, something angels and demons didn’t have to concern themselves with. Even so, as Aziraphale waggled the chunk of rotten shark in Crowley’s face he felt warm saliva flood his mouth as his stomach clenched threateningly; perhaps this was the sole dish that could see a celestial entity heaving over the nearest available receptacle. The smell itself was almost enough to make his eyes water but then Aziraphale smiled hopefully and that was the moment Crowley realised he’d made a terrible error.

“I couldn’t possibly…” he trailed off, patting his stomach. “Absolutely stuffed from those pretzels on the plane. You’d better have it for me.”

“But you have to!” Aziraphale cried. “I _always_ give you my last oyster when we visit somewhere new together, it’s tradition.”

“Ah, not an oyster though, is it? Damn.” Crowley clenched one fist in frustration. “If only it was. Just can’t get enough of the slimy little blighters.”

Aziraphale waved the fork temptingly, pushing it close enough to Crowley’s mouth that he could taste the bitterness when he breathed in.

“But you said to think of it as Iceland’s answer to oysters. This could be our last trip together on Earth…”

As Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide Crowley felt his heart give in and grim acceptance washed over him. He was going to eat the shark. He, a demon, was going to eat a piece of festering, rotten shark because he couldn’t say no to the very angel he had been sent to Earth to destroy six thousand years ago. Funny, the unexpected turns life can take.

With shaking fingers he reached out for the fork, realised with mounting dread that not only was he going to eat the piss-stinking hunk of putrid meat, Aziraphale planned on feeding it to him as if it was the final bite of a romantic dessert for two. The indignity. The absolute, godawful indignity of it all. He couldn’t do it, he _wouldn’t_ do it, he would…

And then his mouth was flooded with the sour taste of death and all he could do was try to swallow as quickly as possible and ignore the rising bile in his throat.

“Chewy.” The word came out as a garbled mess as he gave Aziraphale a weak thumbs up and the angel smiled lovingly at him, as if they’d just finished the most delicious candlelit dinner.

He reached out for his glass for the sweet distraction of wine, brought it up to his lips to find it hellishly empty. Desperately, as the shark threatened to rise up for its glorious sequel, he grabbed Aziraphale’s half-drunk glass of wine and downed it, swallowing twice for good measure.

“What’s wrong with you, my dear, don’t you like it?” Aziraphale looked mildly offended for a moment, before looking down and casually inspecting his nails. “Delicate, creamy, just the right blend of salt and sourness…what’s not to like?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with _you_?” Crowley spluttered, stabbing a finger down at the empty bowl, shining wetly with residual ooze. “You just hoovered up a plate of rotten shark like it was…”

“Shark?” Aziraphale furrowed his brow in confusion, peered into the bowl for a closer look. “Poor thing, jetlag must have you confused. Cubes of edam cheese, I think you’ll find. Just the one cube of hákarl. Russian roulette, I believe humans call it.”

He stood up then, swung his jacket off of the back of the chair with a flourish and turned back to Crowley, who was staring after him as if he was in the presence of an enemy whose power he was only just beginning to comprehend. Over his shoulder, he winked at the demon. “Little bit of mischief of my own. I’m not an idiot, Crowley.”


	35. Lucky Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I used to think we would find a way out of this place, lose ourselves in the stars, disappear into something that was just for us.”

**January 2020. Reykjavik, Iceland.**

“I think it’s this way, the second left and then we branch right and…”

“I really don’t think this is necessary, angel.”

Aziraphale lowered the map to look at Crowley, who was watching him with a smile. “Of course it is, how else are we going to find our way there? Bit of a labyrinth, look.” He turned around to give Crowley a good look at the map, which was wider than both of them stood side by side, boasting a veritable rabbit warren of streets that criss-crossed across the length of the admittedly small city.

“Or we could head straight for the ruddy great church up there.” Crowley gently took the map out of Aziraphale’s hands and began folding it up, nodding towards the imposing church in the distance, towering over the city like a silent giant at the top of the long street ahead of them.

“Ah.” Aziraphale nodded meekly, followed Crowley as the demon began striding up the hill, hands deep in his pockets to keep them warm from the biting winter air. “Very good.”

“This is where I leave you,” Crowley said as they reached the top of the street some time later, their progress slowed by Aziraphale needing to stop at every shop to take in the window display, pointing excitedly when he spotted one tourist shop selling angels made out of recycled metal.

The steep pyramid shape of the Hallgrímskirkja church rose up to meet the sky, even more impressive at close range, a stark dagger slicing up into the late-morning dawn. Aziraphale found himself drawn towards it as he always was when in the vicinity of consecrated ground, like a homing pigeon coming in to roost. A few paces behind, Crowley watched him leave, hand crooked to his forehead to shield his eyes as he looked up at the towering church. As the angel slipped inside, he turned to sniff out his own version of hallowed ground: the perfect breakfast spot.

***

Aziraphale was used to remarks about the way he gravitated towards timelessness. His interests, his habits, even his clothes, he knew they were considered old-fashioned, attracted curious glances in the streets, poorly-hidden snickers in heaven. He didn’t mind the smirking, not really, happy enough with the comfort he drew from the familiarity of his routine.

Until he walked into the church that day he hadn’t realised just how much he missed the way heaven used to make him feel, as though he was walking through the gates of a place in which he would always be welcome, no matter how he looked or felt or what he believed in. Heaven had been his solace for so very long, his home to come back to when everywhere else felt foreign. It had changed though, over time, as comforts so often do, evolving into a place where he felt like he no longer fitted in.

The peace he felt as he found himself standing under columns of smooth white stone was like walking back into heaven as it had been all of those years ago, back before their dream of a better world had been tainted with judgement and expectations that no living creature could meet, before sin became something to punish rather than forgive.

There was a bravery in the church’s starkness, no gilded lecterns or opulent stained glass windows. The only real piece of the church’s interior that pulled any focus was the mammoth twist of organ pipes, which Aziraphale took in with reverence. To hear their music swell to fill the room, it was something he dearly wished he could witness. _Perhaps another time_ , he thought, shaking his head a little as he remembered time was not something he had on his side. Though, if paradise was as he believed it to be, maybe there would be a way to find himself standing there again.

Throughout his lifetimes on Earth, Aziraphale had come to understand that faith manifested itself differently in every human; every angel, come to that. It wasn't always the Almighty and heaven's gates, there was faith in life, too, in love and friendships and the dusty shelves of his bookshop. To him, faith was subtlety, understatement. It wasn’t showy, something used as leverage. Faith couldn’t be twisted into one-upmanship, it was just _there_ , quietly, running in the background and serving as a gentle hand to guide the way, to support when needed, or to pull you close in those desperate times when it felt like all hope was lost. 

That building, in all its simplicity, felt a lot like faith. It wasn’t built on wealth, or pride, or a need to do anything other than serve as a comfort to all those who entered, a sanctuary where faith could be explored, or challenged, or perhaps even set gently down and left behind as nothing but a fond memory.

As Aziraphale left the church and stepped out into the cool air, it felt as though he was walking away from something, perhaps for the final time. He made his way across the quiet square, kept his eyes firmly facing forward, breathed a sigh of contentment when he caught sight of Crowley leaning against the wall opposite him. The demon hopped back onto solid ground when he saw him, his face lighting up as he waved a heavy paper bag in his direction.

“Angel!” he yelled, pointing at the bag with a look of glee on his face. “I found the holy grail of cinnamon buns!”

The thing Aziraphale had always found comforting about faith was its ability to manifest itself in every corner of existence. There was faith in hot coffee on Monday mornings, in smoothing open the pages of a treasured story, and in the warm arms of your soulmate as a sticky cinnamon bun was thrust into your mouth with all the grace of a drunken sailor.

“Perfect, right?” Crowley asked, slinging an arm around the angel’s neck and kissing the side of his forehead, lips sticky with cinnamon sugar.

Aziraphale looked at him, at the unparalleled madness of everything they were fighting so hard to protect, felt his heart swell as notions of home and faith and love brought him back to the same road he had turned away from for so long. His hand found Crowley’s and, together, they walked away.

“Perfect.”

***

**January 2020. Selatangar, Iceland.**

Midnight approached the barren ruins of Selatangar, the rhythmic crashing of waves against the black sand beach the only sound punctuating the eerie silence. It was a place borne out of recklessness, windswept and abandoned, the epitome of Iceland’s wilds.

All that remained of the old fishing village were broken down stone houses, roofs torn clear by the winter winds, empty shells that had stood firm on the cliffs through nothing other than their own stubborn will.

In one of the small stone shacks, snow piled up around the walls, an angel and a demon sat huddled together, waiting.

Aziraphale unscrewed the lid of the thermos and passed it to Crowley, breathing in the intoxicating scent of creamy hot chocolate, spiced with a generous glug of whiskey. It was a comfort rather than a necessity, with neither being really feeling the cold, but it felt like the correct thing to do on a night of sub-zero temperatures as the remnants of snow from a long winter were gathered around their feet.

“I used to think we would find a way out of this place, disappear into something that was just for us. It was always something grand that I imagined, our eternity, something beyond comprehension. There was never space in my mind for anything tangible, my love for you has always felt like an eclipse.” Aziraphale paused, looking across at Crowley who was looking right back, his cheek resting against the heel of his hand. “I’ve come to realise that it’s the smallest things, the human moments, when I really feel as though we’ve made it. Getting told off by an air hostess, taking down the Christmas tree, sitting here waiting to see if the Lights will appear. These are the moments.”

“These are the moments,” Crowley repeated, his voice a soft echo. “You told me I was dangerous once, do you remember?”

“You _are_ dangerous.” Aziraphale smiled, as if danger was something he had been only too happy to become accustomed to. “Would follow you anywhere, that’s what I said. I would, you know.”

“As it turns out, I’m the one who’s following you. All the way up to heaven, if they’ll have me.”

“They’ll have you.” Aziraphale reached out for his hand, squeezed it to reinforce the point. “They don't deserve you but they’ll be lucky to have you.”

“Sometimes I think you’re the dangerous one.”

Aziraphale laughed at that, his voice ringing out like a light in the darkness. He gestured down at his clothes, circled a hand around his head. “I’m an angel, Crowley, how am…”

“Because you make me believe in things, angel, you give me hope. Hope is a dangerous thing for a demon to have. Sometimes when you look at me I can almost believe we will make it.”

"We will make it. We don't have any other choice but to." Aziraphale’s fingers found the demon’s forearm, sliding up underneath his jacket and curling around the soft skin, his thumb feathering the faintest line from wrist to elbow. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, that you could see everything you are.”

It was their final night away and both angel and demon were filled with that impossible melancholy that always accompanies the end of escapism. The last week had seen them shut out the rest of the world, entertain only each other as they wound their way around the country, taking in natural wonders so otherworldly they felt almost ethereal.

There was a reverence to Iceland, and a danger, as if heaven and hell had somehow struck a peace deal long enough to mould the bleak, beautiful landscape into being. That’s how Aziraphale had felt, at least, when he spoke those words to Crowley earlier that evening as they settled back against the black stone and stared out into the endless night.

Crowley had smiled, kissed his hand, wondering if Aziraphale knew that he had seen the Almighty’s finishing touches firsthand when Iceland went by a different name, just like he had once upon a time.


	36. Aurora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley looked up at the sky and let his mind wander to a time so many thousands of years before. Before Eden, before he fell for Aziraphale, before he fell at all, incidentally.

**January 2020. Selatangar, Iceland.**

“In Estonia they believe the Northern Lights are horse-drawn carriages making their way across the sky to celestial weddings, can you imagine?” Aziraphale took a sip of the whiskey-spiked hot chocolate and passed the thermos back to Crowley.

“Giving heaven a bit much credit, aren’t they?” The demon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and dug the thermos into the snow drift beside them.

They had been sitting in the yawning doorway of the broken down stone house for hours, staring up at the night and hoping for a glimpse of that elusive light show that blooms like a dancer tip toeing across the sky.

“In Japan they say the Lights are an eternal war between good and evil dragons, rising up into the night to battle it out.” Crowley exhaled a foggy breath and turned to Aziraphale, laughing as tendrils of cool air dissipated around them like smoke. “Snakes, dragons, not that different.”

“You spent so much time here before,” Aziraphale said, struck suddenly by the gaps in his knowledge about Crowley’s activities before the Arrangement, when their paths only crossed by chance every few centuries. “There’s so much of you that I missed.”

“Oh yes, met a fine young boy called Egill, gave him his first beer.” He smiled to himself, remembered placing the flagon in the hand of a boy who went on to become immortalised as one of Iceland’s most fearsome warriors, and its most famous drunk. “I was a raven for a bit, something of a scout, you might say. Plenty of opportunity for mischief when the Vikings were around. Never a dull moment.”

“And the Lights? They appeared often?” The angel pushed him to continue, leaning back on his elbows and watching Crowley’s face move as he spoke, illuminated by nothing other than millennia old starlight. _Did I love you already_ , he wondered, _when this light began its journey through the galaxy?_

“When they wanted to. Sometimes I wouldn’t see them for weeks, then every day for a fortnight. Always when I least expected them. They like to surprise you, the Lights, but they’re stubborn too. A lot like Her, really.”

The thermos had run dry and Aziraphale snoozed softly on his shoulder when Crowley saw the first tendrils of green light reach out across the sky like fingers beckoning him home.

“Angel,” he murmured, gently shaking Aziraphale awake. “They’re here.”

Gasping at the joy of finally experiencing the only natural wonder he’d had yet to witness, Aziraphale fell silent to his own thoughts as he watched the Lights dance far above them. Next to him, Crowley looked up at the sky and let his mind wander to a time so many thousands of years before. Before Eden, before he fell for Aziraphale, before he fell at all, incidentally.

***

“They’re a bit small, don’t you think?” Uriel wrinkled their nose, watching Crowley as he came walking through trees that barely reached the top of his shoulders.

“Trying something a little bit different,” he explained, running a hand across the soft treetops, letting the new leaves tickle his palm. “There are places where they could roam the forests for months and never see every tree. In some places the treetops will stretch up to the sky if they let them. Here, they’ll never lose themselves in the forests, unless they want to.”

“And how could they possibly lose themselves amongst these little…trees, you called them?”

“They just have to sit down.” He grinned, swept one hand over a bare trunk and watched slim branches push their way out and fork upwards, green leaves blooming despite the darkness. He took a step back to admire his handiwork, the last opportunity for creativity on this sprawling mass of rock he had breathed life into. Snapping his fingers as a last swell of inspiration struck, the colour in the tree trunks drained away until they were bleached white, standing tall like skeletons silhouetted in the night.

“Angels?” Raphael’s voice rang out and the two angels followed the echo until the archangel came into sight, a pale glow emanating from them to light the way. “Our work here is finished.”

“Is She pleased?” Crowley asked, glancing back at his final offering to Earth. He wondered if Uriel was right, maybe they were a little small.

“If She wasn’t, dear one, I think we would know.” Raphael laid a hand on his cheek, smiling kindly.

The three ethereal beings wandered across the cliffs in what would have been peaceful silence, if it wasn’t punctuated by questions every few steps.

“What’s next then? When do _they_ get here? Who are they, anyway? Has She created them? Will we stay here to guide them? Somebody needs to look after them, don’t they? I could do it. I could teach them how to care for the forests.”

Uriel had stamped on ahead, hands clasped firmly over their ears to drown out the sound of Crowley’s stream of consciousness. Raphael turned, and even their usually patient smile was looking a little strained around the edges, not that Crowley noticed, too caught up in his thoughts of the Almighty’s plans for the planet he had spent so long decorating.

“If I promise to put in a good word, will that help?”

“You know, Raphael, I think it might.” Crowley walked along next to the archangel, wondering how it must feel to be so utterly unshakeable in both belief and conviction. While his own thoughts zipped from idea to idea, filling his head with questions until the weight of them felt impossible to contain, there was a peace that radiated from Raphael, a feeling of quiet contentment. Perhaps, in time, he could learn to be like that too, could learn to carry himself as an angel was supposed to.

As the stars lit up above them, tiny pinpricks bursting to life across the night sky, a group of angels stood in a cluster high above the sea and watched as the Almighty added her final flourish to the world they had helped create.

It was the green they spotted first, a pale shard of light snaking across the sky like an infinite serpent. Beams of light broke off and stretched up, up, up until the emerald light appeared to drip through the darkness, painting everything in its wake.

Blue came next, as bright and beautiful as the afternoon sky, the colour working its way through the green until the two could have been dancing the sweetest waltz high up in the heavens.

There was nothing Crowley could do but stare up at the sky full of colours above him, watching them in wonder as they weaved through the night in shades of green and blue and the lightest pink, the deepest violet that transformed the sky into velvet. They shuddered across that endless expanse of blackness until they shone so brightly they appeared to paint every one of the angels standing there, their faces glowing with all of the colours the Almighty had dreamed into existence.

It was for them, Crowley understood, a gift for making something beautiful.

She was there, for a moment, within the lights. She looked down at them, across at everything they had made, and saw that it was good. She smiled. And then she was gone. It was the last time Crowley ever saw her. She never liked to make a fuss with her exits. There one moment, gone the next, like a whisper on the wind. Sometimes it could leave you wondering if she’d ever really been there at all.

***

Sitting side by side with the angel he had loved for so long, would love hopelessly until the end of existence, Crowley watched the Lights and thought fondly of the Almighty, the creator of every being that had been, that was, and would be. Despite everything he had endured at heaven’s hands, his memory of Her had never been tarnished.

On the day Crowley and Raphael and Uriel stood and watched the Northern Lights dance above the Earth for the first time, the Almighty had already begun to turn to thoughts of the next world. Their world, Earth, lay in heaven’s hands now. The angels were Her dearest creation, after all, were the only ones who could be trusted to guide humanity through the loving, playful, challenging hand She had dealt them.

After he fell there was only nothing. As the nothingness stretched into unimaginable loneliness he had wandered through the depths of hell in desperation, searching blindly for another face in the dark, for another entity that would hear his voice, would look at him and let him know he still existed. The torture, when it came, was a relief. The attempted breaking of his spirit meant he was _there_ , at least.

He had begged the Almighty for forgiveness, had sworn he would be more like the angels who remained in heaven. He had promised to change, to stop asking questions, not to tease or joke or ask _why_. The moment he realised he had been abandoned by the one who made him, the one he thought loved him unconditionally, was the deepest type of heartbreak he had ever suffered.

What Crowley had never known was that his dedication to the Almighty had been an unexpected lifeline. Hell had thought it the perfect punishment that the fallen angel who had helped create the world should be the one to spread evil throughout it. As he gasped for air, drowning in the desolation of desertion, hell had thrust him back into the land of the living and, contrary to their plans, straight into the arms of salvation as the Almighty looked on.

She had always been the true definition of ethereal, something instinctively unknowable, something that existed in a state of absolute neutrality. She wasn’t the cruel puppet master some believed Her to be but She wasn’t the benevolent mother of the world either. She watched eternity unfold from behind a veil, remaining resolutely detached. She had done Her part; She’d brought the world into being. That world and all of the thousands of other worlds that were, as yet, unknown to each other.

She returned, of course, to watch humanity take its first shaky steps across the planet: Adam, Eve, temptation, sin, the mysterious disappearance of an eager Principality’s flaming sword, and the moment an angel offered a demon the simple kindness of shelter from the rain. She quietly watched the beginning of everything unfold before slipping away to let all that She had conceived come to fruition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all - hope you enjoyed the Icelandic mini break...back to reality next time around! The next chapter will be going up on Thursday but in the mean time, thank you for all your continued support, you're all complete stars <3


	37. Dark Come Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he didn’t do this, and if he didn’t do it that day, it would be Crowley standing there the next morning contemplating how much of his soul he could afford to give away in hell’s name.

**March 2020. Waterloo Bridge, London.**

Even in those lost hours between darkness and light, London was alive. Revellers swayed home from nights out, drunkenly singing and fighting and making decisions they would come to regret in a few short hours; joggers ran past, hands clenched in front of them, squeezing in a pre-dawn workout to set them up for greatness throughout the day; commuters hurried by, desperate to get to the office in time to inhale breakfast at their desk. As the many faces of London rushed past; headphones in, heads down, nobody noticed the angel standing with his back to the Thames, watching them and waiting for the right moment.

Aziraphale had been there since the sun had set on the previous day, had walked the length of the bridge and back over and over as he talked himself into, then out of, then back into what he had come there to do.

Ten souls, that was what hell had demanded of Crowley. Since they’d returned from Iceland the demon had left Aziraphale alone in the flat untold times, would return hours later radiating frustration but, mercifully, the telltale undercurrent of sorrow was missing.

“What did you do today?” Aziraphale would ask brightly, content in the knowledge that Crowley hadn’t carried out any acts that would pain him to speak about, despite the hastily approaching deadline hell had set him.

“Nothing that’s going to please Dagon,” he would sigh, flinging himself dramatically onto the sofa and flopping across the cushions in that rakish way that made him look as though he was 80% limb. “Scared a pigeon into flying at a tourist. Encouraged a seagull to steal an ice cream. Saw a man shout at his kid so gave him a little _nudge_ down some steps.”

One night, as they sat by the windows and stared out into the flickering lights of a thousand other homes just like theirs, Crowley’s voice came quietly. “I can’t do it, angel. I can’t hurt them any more.”

“I know,” Aziraphale had whispered, folding the demon into his arms and murmuring the words into his soft hair.

 _I could do it_ , he had wanted to say, had even opened his mouth to speak the notion into existence. The last time he’d made the suggestion Crowley had shut the idea down in an instant, had all but forbidden him to even think it.

Aziraphale had been, though. Thinking about it. Crowley had said taking a life was like snuffing out a light, that it irrevocably changed the way you saw yourself. How many thousands of souls had he taken throughout history, Aziraphale wondered? And yet he still loved with reckless abandon, still dreamt of a better world, threw his head back and laughed with unbound joy. He was still himself, after everything. Perhaps, Aziraphale thought, this time would be the tipping point. Perhaps this last act of evil in hell’s name would be the one to make the dam burst, the one that made him lose the last of himself. Saving him from hell’s final cruelty felt like the smallest step to repay a lifetime of last minute interventions where Crowley had snatched him back from the jaws of doom.

And so, Aziraphale found himself standing on Waterloo Bridge one ordinary March morning, running through all of the heart-aching scenarios that would end in ten souls claimed for hell.

There were the long games, he knew that, the whispered temptations to poison a mind away from goodness. That left the humans to do most of the work themselves, let the whisperer shrug free from responsibility. After all, all they’d done was put notions into a weak-willed person’s head, and how dangerous could mere words be, really? The thing about the long game is that it required time, and time was a luxury he couldn’t afford. If he was going to do this, he needed to do it quickly, before he lost his nerve.

A freak accident. Blameless. Unprejudiced in its violence. That’s what his mind kept coming back to. If he timed it right then perhaps he could claim ten souls in a single act. He could turn and go without witnessing the moment the life left their eyes. But he couldn’t shake the notion of collateral damage. There was no way to know if the lives he was taking would have been bound for heaven or hell. How could he determine an evil soul just by looking at a crowd? He thought of Crowley’s friend Old Mick who had filled him with such fear on first glance, who had the gentle handshake and kind eyes, who had been so warm to them that night in the club.

Aziraphale watched a young mother stroll past him, pushing a gurgling baby in front of her. The child looked up at him as they passed, smiled toothlessly, and the angel felt his heart contract in his chest. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t hurt them, the very people he’d been sent to protect. He had wandered the Earth for six thousand years doing what he could to keep them safe and now he stood there pondering the most effective way to kill ten of them in one fell swoop.

He turned to leave, felt shame cling to him as thought of how many thousands of times Crowley must have stood in the same position, felt the desperation to turn away without having the privilege to do so. If he didn’t do this, and if he didn’t do it that day, it would be Crowley standing there the next morning contemplating how much of his soul he could afford to give away in hell’s name.

A lorry came rattling around the corner and onto the bridge as a double decker bus sped down the opposite lane. Late, he expected, the driver racing to make up those all important seconds. Aziraphale closed his eyes, prayed for forgiveness as he imagined hearing the crash of metal on metal, the moments of silence that would come before the screaming started.

A breeze whipped up from the road, lifting his hair from his forehead. He opened his eyes, saw the lorry driving smoothly away as the bus slowed to pull into the bus stop where the bridge met the road. Around him, the world continued as if it hadn’t just miraculously avoided an accident that could have seen them all become nothing more than the targets of thoughts and prayers on social media.

 _Pull yourself together_ , he scowled, pulling his jacket closed and clenching his fists as he strode away from the bridge. _Think of him, of all the times he couldn’t say no. Think of everything he’s risked to be with you._

Aziraphale walked, and as he walked he thought. He thought of visiting a prison, of finding his way into the cells of the most violent criminals; he thought of hate rallies, faces twisted as they spewed rot into the world like poison; he thought of those who believed they’d _gotten away with it_. The only way to really know a person, to know whether heaven or hell would be waiting for them at the end, was to peer behind the veil into who they truly were underneath, what they hid in the places they thought nobody would ever see.

***

The hospital was quiet, in limbo between visiting hours and the evening rounds. Nurses grabbed what little sleep their breaks allowed for, doctors scrubbed out for the day, and Aziraphale stood unnoticed in the corridor.

There was a reverence to the intensive care unit, a silence that held the breadth of human emotion in its grip. There was hope, of course, of a miraculous recovery; an undercurrent of accepting that the final words had already been spoken to loved ones, that it was a matter of waiting, of _when_.

To stand there on the precipice of evil deeds felt to Aziraphale as though he had taken a step outside of himself, as if he hovered somewhere above his human vessel, staring down and watching from a safe distance. Perhaps this was the only way to endure it. His previous visits to hospitals had been on heavenly business, to lay a calming hand upon a tired forehead, to soothe sweet souls ahead of their final journey or to give a reprieve to those heaven declared worthy of a miracle. This time there was only despair in his heart, the weight of what he had come there to do.

The ones who had lied. The ones who hid in plain sight. The ones who had manipulated and destroyed and wielded power like a weapon. The ones who had stalked and killed and evaded justice. The ones who would do it all again, if they could. They were the ones the angel had come for on this pleasant March evening when the promise of spring hung in the air. They laid there, vulnerable for the first time, alive solely because of machinery and humanity’s unspoken pact to help each other survive until death was inevitable. They laid there at the mercy of an angel who had no mercy left to give.

As he walked through the corridor, through the rooms and between the neatly made beds, he brushed a hand against their fingers and saw who they were underneath the masks they wore for the rest of the world, saw the secrets they thought would remain buried. Where he found evil, he snuffed it out, moving through the unit like a ghost leaving nothing in his wake but the sound of machine after machine flatlining until the quota was met and the deed was done.

***

Evening teetered on the cusp of night as Aziraphale arrived back at the flat to find Crowley in the kitchen having stern words with a plant, secateurs raised threateningly in one hand, plant pot gripped tightly in the other. The smell of olives and feta rose up from the salad bowl on the table, chunks of crusty bread piled high, ready to be torn apart and used to mop up the glistening oil left on their plates after dinner.

Aziraphale watched the sharp slash of Crowley’s shoulder blades, t-shirt pulled tight across his back, long legs pacing menacingly around the kitchen as he waxed lyrical about correct growth habits.

“You’re my legacy,” he hissed. "You have to do me proud.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard as he stood in the doorway, legs shaky and head pounding, watching everything that he was so desperate to protect; knowing without question that he would sell what was left of his soul to let Crowley bully his plants in peace for eternity.

The demon turned then and caught sight of him, lowering his voice as he relaxed his death grip on the plant.

“Oh, angel, hi. We were just…having words.” He noticed Aziraphale’s expression, left the plant on the draining board, a merciful stay of execution, and closed the gap between them. His voice soft, he took Aziraphale’s hand and pulled him gently through the doorway. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale lied, unwinding his scarf from his neck and hanging it in its usual spot on Marble Crowley’s fingertips. “Just a busy day. Something smells good.”

As they sat by the window, eating dinner and chatting about nothing and everything, legs entwined under the table, Aziraphale could almost forget what he had done just an hour before. As he listened to Crowley discuss the minutiae of his day he let the demon’s voice wrap around him like a comfort blanket, stroking away the scars of the day and healing him from the inside out. The restorative power of love could never be underestimated.

Crowley was one glass away from finishing the bottle of crisp white wine, looked vaguely puzzled every time Aziraphale declined a glass, when the chime of the day’s late night news report sounded from the television, left on out of habit.

_“A freak incident in a central London hospital tonight as ten patients in the intensive care unit died within minutes of each other. The families of the deceased have been notified and, while the incident is being investigated, foul play isn’t suspected.”_

_The Angel of Death?_ The headline was emblazoned along the bottom of the screen, the damning words flashing up below a grainy CCTV image that showed a mysterious cream-coloured blur moving down the ICU corridor during the incident.

“Turn it off.” Aziraphale stared down into his empty plate, eyes frantically tracing smears of oil and crumbs of cheese in a vain attempt at distraction.

“Angel…” Crowley trailed off, turning to look at the screen as horrific understanding dawned on him. He turned back to Aziraphale, disbelief in his eyes. “What have you done?”

“Turn it off!” Aziraphale cried, rising from the table and desperately reaching for the remote control, stabbing clumsily at the power button until the screen turned black and the flat was filled with silence.

He felt Crowley’s presence behind him, heard the demon whisper his name so sadly that it was all he could do to keep breathing as the weight of what he had done dragged him down until he felt as though he was drowning beneath it.

He let Crowley carry him into the bedroom and lay him down on the bed, felt him gently take one of his shoes off, then the other, placing them neatly in front of the wardrobe as he did himself every night. The mattress gave slightly as Crowley sat down next to him and stroked his hair back from his head, touch feather light against his skin. They sat in silence for what felt like hours, Crowley doing nothing but watching him as he tried and failed to sleep. Eventually the demon reached out for his hand but Aziraphale snatched it away.

“No.”

“Let me, angel.” He tried again but Aziraphale pulled it out of his grasp. “Every burden is ours to share.”

Aziraphale sat up slightly, tucked his hands out of sight on either side of his chest as he folded his arms. “Not this. Let me protect you from this, Crowley, please. I promised that you would never suffer again.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley knelt up on the bed, his voice firm as he tugged at the angel’s elbow to try and free one of his hands. “We are a team. What you carry, I carry, the good and the bad.”

“No!” Aziraphale wrenched his arm away from Crowley’s grip, knelt up until they were almost eye to eye. The angel’s breath came out as a deep heave as Crowley watched him with heartbreak in his eyes. “If I give this to you then it will all have been for nothing. Don’t make me give this to you, please.”

He felt Crowley’s hands slide up his arms to his shoulders, let the demon pull him close, knew then that Crowley understood why he had done it, that the demon loved him still, despite the ugliness in his soul. His forehead found the warm skin of Crowley’s chest as he sobbed for what he had done that day, for finally beginning to understand the magnitude of Crowley’s suffering for so many thousands of years; for heaven, for all that it could have been, and for hell, for all of the thousands of fallen angels it had torn apart and destroyed in the name of penance.

“I won’t, angel. I won’t,” the demon promised softly, as Aziraphale let himself be enveloped by love that was only gentleness and patience. “Thank you for sparing me from this. I know what it cost you.”

As Crowley held his angel in his arms as if he was the most delicate treasure, he thought how inadequate his words were. How to express gratitude to the one who loved you enough to sacrifice part of their soul to keep you from another moment of pain? There were only quiet words of love and thankfulness whispered in the darkness, a pledge of love that could never be undone, wherever life’s impossible journey may lead them.

***

“You should have told me.”

As the sun slowly filled the bedroom with the golden light of a new day, Crowley and Aziraphale hung in that grey area between sleep and waking, the demon’s chest pressed tight to the angel’s back.

“You would have said no,” came Aziraphale’s reply, muffled against a pillow.

Crowley sighed, unable to argue back. It was the truth, after all, he would have said no. “I can’t have you going down the same path as me, angel. You aren’t like me, there’s no darkness in you. I was created to fall, you weren’t made for this.”

“It was something I could do to give you a fighting chance, no last souls against your name. Proof of contrition, if heaven ask to see it. The storm you’ve weathered all this time…you’re so close to leaving it all behind.”

“And I would weather it for another six thousand years if you stood at the end of it.”

Aziraphale turned over to face him, scooting forward until they were nose to nose and his words came out as a breath against Crowley’s lips. “Four months and this will all be over, we’ll be free.”

“Four months and I can unleash six thousand years’ worth of questions I’ve been saving just for Gabriel.” The demon smiled wickedly, sighing with longing as he pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s. “This is madness, angel. _We_ are madness. We were meant to destroy each other.”

“This has always been madness.” Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes, saw his own cautious hope reflected there. What they were doing did feel a lot like madness but he had come to understand that true joy never came without risk, and he was willing to risk everything in the pursuit of it. “Every great love is.”


	38. Bad Moon Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fancy thwarting the Great Plan one last time?” Raphael laughed, but it was a hollow sound.

**June 2020. Raphael’s Office, Heaven.**

“So.” Aziraphale looked up at the painting behind Raphael’s desk, felt as though it was the first time he’d truly looked at it. A stormy sea crashed relentlessly against the black shore while white licks of foam cascaded into the air and stretched up towards high cliffs that looked down over it all, as if surveying a glorious kingdom of chaos. “New piece?”

“It’s always been here.” Raphael looked over their shoulder at the grand oil painting. “ _The First Night on Earth_ , it’s an original.”

“It’s beautiful.”

The archangel smiled proudly. “Thank you, Aziraphale, that’s very kind. Now, how have you been keeping?”

“Oh, you know, trying to keep busy.” He shrugged, thinking back to the easy routine he and Crowley had fallen into as spring turned its thoughts to summer. Each day started the same whether they had slept the night before or not: with breakfast in bed, part of their ongoing pledge to make every morning a breakfast in bed kind of morning. Then there was the glorious stretch of time where they did nothing but enjoy each other, hushed desires spoken aloud and desperate kisses as they got tangled up in bedsheets and panted hot breaths against each other’s skin. Work came later, if it was necessary, otherwise they might wile away the day in the bookshop.

Aziraphale had taken to opening the shop more regularly, realising with delighted surprise that Crowley found it a source of quiet comfort. He would catch him sometimes, flicking idly through books Aziraphale had read to him in the past, relaxing into that secret smile when he came across familiar passages.

Whether they spent their nights curled up together in the flat, or in a bustling cocktail bar bickering about how to liven up paradise, or wandering through London’s streets after dark, fingers entwined and eyes shining in the light of the moon, the one topic they delicately tip-toed around was the R+R programme, the final hurdle standing between them and everything they had only just begun to be brave enough to dream of.

“Well, everything seems to be in order here.” Raphael traced their finger across Aziraphale’s paperwork for the month, buried it in a desk drawer without so much as glancing at his report.

“Is that…it?” Aziraphale asked. Their meetings had grown progressively less formal over the months, always ending with Raphael’s subtle questions about how Crowley was doing. They had never spoken his name aloud in heaven, had never needed to; a reference to _he_ was enough.

“They’re telling them today.” Raphael leaned forward, fingers clasped under their chin as they brought their elbows down to rest on the desk.

“Yes.” Aziraphale spoke the word tightly, tried not to think about the faraway look in Crowley’s eyes as they’d said goodbye that morning, one lingering kiss after another until they could tear themselves away from each other.

When Crowley had received an emergency summons to hell they had both known it could only mean one thing: Michael was making the long journey down to the underworld to announce the R+R programme to hell’s fallen angels.

“He will be okay, Aziraphale. If he is a fraction of who he was before, he will be okay.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure which one of them the insistence in Raphael’s voice was supposed to comfort, but he drew reassurance from it all the same. It was funny, he thought, that Crowley had two angels in his corner; one who knew him as he was before, and one who had fallen for him so desperately afterwards.

“You worked together. Creation. He told me once.” Aziraphale watched as Raphael nodded slowly, a rare grin spreading across their perfectly angelic features, transforming them, for a second, from the picture of refined grace into something more playful.

“Yes, we did.” Raphael leaned back in their chair, raised one hand to gesture to the painting behind them. “He was always different, even back then. The way he saw our role, the way he pulled knowledge this way and that, looking at it from every angle and drawing out questions that the rest of us could barely conceive, even the way he walked felt like a rebellion. Looking back, it isn’t a surprise that he fell. A mistake but not a surprise. Heaven, for all its supposed tolerance, has a very narrow view of acceptability, I’m afraid.”

Aziraphale tried to imagine Crowley walking through heaven’s hallowed halls, could picture him swaggering past Gabriel’s office, hands buried in his pockets as he strode by, head down as he dreamed up a thousand new ideas that the seraphim and archangels wished they had the boundless creativity to imagine. There had always been something heavenly about him, something tragic too, as if a soul so bright couldn’t possible sustain all of that energy without burning itself out too soon.

“He is…” Aziraphale trailed off, retreating into the depths of his heart to search for the words that could even begin to articulate everything Crowley still was after all of those long years, perhaps because of them. “He is the sun, something that burns away all the darkness in the world, all of the ugliness. He is the stars, a midnight promise, the moon and the comets and all of the wonders above. They will not take him from me, Raphael. I would fall, if that’s what it would take to stand by his side.”

Raphael reached for his hand across the desk and there was a sadness in their eyes, something Aziraphale thought might have been pity. “I know. I know you would. And if you fell and heaven granted him forgiveness, where would that leave you? Trapped in the same torture you’ve been in for all this time, loving each other hopelessly from afar. It isn’t romantic, yearning fruitlessly after the forbidden, it destroys you. It fills you with hope and breaks it down until there’s nothing left.”

There was a tremor in Raphael’s voice, a pain that could only have come from somebody who had endured that torture themselves. Aziraphale was taken aback by their words; his and Crowley’s torment had felt like the most uniquely isolating situation but perhaps… Before he could ask, the archangel collected themselves and spoke again.

“Aziraphale, the rapture, it’s not…there have been changes.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, feeling a storm begin to churn within him. Not now, not when they were this close.“You can’t just change the rapture. It’s been written for years, by the Almighty Herself. The rapture, the tribulation, the second coming…”

Raphael pursed their lips, dropped their voice as they leaned in. “Progress, according to Gabriel, is essential for survival. That’s what he calls this mess, _progress_. Funny, how much plans can change after an audience with hell.”

“To push the programme through...” Aziraphale fell quiet as it all became clear. “It was his pet project, wasn’t it, to reintegrate the Fallen?”

Raphael nodded. “To win back his reputation after Armageddon failed. And when it looked like hell wouldn’t agree he made a bargain with them. Nothing that would affect him, of course, just a little more suffering for humanity. The _little ones_.”

That mounting fear that had been consuming his subconscious for so long reared its head. _I was right_ , it snarled, _you were a fool to believe in this._ When Aziraphale spoke there was a shiver in his voice, the feeling of control slipping out of his grasp. “What did he do, Raphael? What did he trade away?”

“Hell felt the tribulation was too long,” their voice rose sarcastically, bitterness hanging from every word. “Seven years is no time at all, the blink of an eye, but hell is not as patient as it used to be. They have plans, Aziraphale, and they don’t intend to lose this time. Let’s just say Jesus is no longer the only guest of honour at the end of the tribulation. Humanity will be treated to something a lot more...demonic.”

Aziraphale remembered how it had felt to stand in Satan’s presence two summers ago in Tadfield. How hope had ebbed away as Satan rose above them, how he would have thrown his sword down and laid himself hopelessly at the dark lord’s mercy if Adam Young hadn’t stood between them, relying on an angel and a demon to protect him, not understanding it was he who protected them, all of them, that day.

“The last judgement,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Fancy thwarting the Great Plan one last time?” Raphael laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “The bargain is a _necessary evil._ Gabriel’s words, of course.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to deride the statement, then hung his head as he remembered his own recent acts of necessary evil.

“Oh yes, I have to give you something.” After fishing around in their desk drawer, Raphael handed him a pamphlet. Their expression was supposed to be neutral, Aziraphale assumed, but they looked down at the leaflet’s cheery font and cartoon imagery and couldn’t resist rolling their eyes as a heavy sigh escaped their lips. “I had nothing to do with this, I assure you.”

Aziraphale looked down at the leaflet, a chubby blonde-haired angel gracing the cover with a speech bubble escaping its mouth that read _Hurry Home, Principalities!_ Underneath the image were the words _Promptness is next to godliness. If you’re not up here and you’re not down there, you’re nowhere._ He dropped the paper onto the desk, looked up at Raphael for answers.

“What does this mean? I have to leave the Earth?”

“There can be no celestial presence on Earth during the tribulation. Nothing to shepherd them, nothing to tempt them. It is a chance for heaven to see their true nature, free from our interference. All of you will return to heaven before the rapture.”

“Nothing like finding out you’re out of a job at the eleventh hour,” he chuckled humourlessly, picking up the leaflet and folding it into his pocket. “And if I don’t return?”

“ _Poof._ ” Raphael splayed their fingers to accompany the sound effect. “The Principalities will return to heaven and the demonic emissaries will return to hell. The one thing Gabriel and Beelzebub agreed on. Between you and me they’re ruling out a repeat of Tadfield, not sure either of them could stand the shame of another blow to the End Times.”

“A death sentence then.” Aziraphale swallowed hard, wondering if Crowley was finding out this information at the same time he was. “A death sentence for those who won’t return to hell.”

“He won’t need to make the choice, Aziraphale. He will be here with you.”

“In paradise.” Aziraphale sighed, standing to leave and extending a hand to Raphael, knowing the next time they saw each other there would be no opportunity to speak like friends.

The archangel rose from behind their desk, accompanied him to the door and laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “Paradise is what you make it.”

***

**June 2020. Head Office, Hell.**

Crowley had had precisely two official job titles in his life. The first was angel, the second was demon. Aziraphale always said if he ended up with a third under his belt it would be professional sloucher. He had spent a lot of time slouching, so he’d probably be pretty good at it. Better than being a demon, at least. _Definitely_ better than being an angel. That had gone down exactly like a lead balloon, like most of his attempts at work had.

As Beelzebub, flanked by Dagon and Hastur, took to the makeshift stage at the head of the dimly lit room, Crowley slouched against the wall in the back corner, stooping low to avoid being in the eye line of any of the demons standing on stage.

He’d managed to evade Hastur since the incident in the Bentley that had seen the duke of hell sent screaming back to the underworld in a blaze of glory. Hadn’t taken too kindly to it, he imagined, and with the R+R programme swiftly approaching Crowley was on his best behaviour. He wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but he knew it didn’t involve scrapping with other demons.

He looked around the room and realised every demon in attendance had once been an angel, knew then that he and Aziraphale had been right, the unprecedented was about to be announced. And there was only one archangel appropriate to deliver the message.

As if on cue, Beelzebub raised one dirt-stained hand and shouted over the background chatter. “Demons of hell!”

It took three attempts before the crowd fell silent; it was Dagon’s clawed hand wrapping threateningly around their trident that did it in the end. Enough of them had been on the receiving end of Dagon’s unique form of punishment that they didn’t fancy a repeat session, and those who hadn’t had heard the stories.

“Heaven has a message for you all.”

The crowd roared, feet stamping at the mere mention of the enemy’s name. Behind them, Crowleyflicked a piece of dirt out from under one of his fingernails and wondered how differently Aziraphale’s morning was going. What he wouldn’t give for a natter with Raphael after all of this time. Still, soon enough.

“An angel is in our presence.” A gnashing of teeth, withered fingers reaching for the stage as the archangel Michael strode out as if they were about to deliver a sermon, not throwing a bone to the souls they had damned to an eternity in the underworld. Up on stage, Beelzebub shouted over the din. “Restrain yourselves, please! Michael, get it over with.”

“Look at you all. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Michael’s soothing voice echoed around the room and the demons fell silent, whether out of curiosity or the memory of the last time they had stood in front of the archangel, Crowley couldn’t be sure. For his part, he buried his hands in his pockets and tried to prepare himself to look vaguely surprised when the announcement was made, just in case Beelzebub was watching him.

_This is the last time I’ll stand here_ , he thought, as Michael’s pre-amble washed over him. _Six thousand years I’ve been bound to this snake pit, and this is the last time I’ll see it._ Harsh fluorescent lights hanging by a thread, floors that were inexplicably sticky, ceilings that dripped brown water, colleagues who hissed tauntingly at him when he walked by…strolling out of there without a backwards glance was going to be the sweetest moment of his day. Although Aziraphale had promised to make crepes for dinner and he tended to be heavy-handed with the sugar, so maybe not.

“You were angels once. Now you have the opportunity to become divine again.” Michael finished their speech and looked out at the sea of demonic faces to gauge the reaction. There was a moment of stunned silence, and then questions came raining down on the archangel like a thunderstorm.

At the back of the room, Crowley laughed. It was fitting really, to see Michael drowning under a sea of questions from the demons they had cursed for that very reason.

Beelzebub stepped in eventually, though Crowley noticed they left the mood in the room to darken to menacing levels before stepping up next to Michael. Was there a flash of discomfort on the archangel’s face? Perhaps he’d imagined it. Perhaps not.

“One at a time, _one at a time_! One at a time or none of you are going anywhere.”

The first question came from a short, squat demon who spoke only to Beelzebub, as if they couldn’t bear to look upon Michael’s angelic face. “What do we have to do? Is it a test? A battle?”

“There is no battle, only the one within yourself.” Michael purred the words as if they were selling copies of their latest self-help book, the kind that was fluffed up with motivational quotes that didn’t really say much of anything but sounded worthy if you didn’t think about them for too long.

_Oh, for the love of_ … Crowley rolled his eyes, remembering exactly why he’d accidentally-on-purpose stuck a well-timed foot out in front of Michael one particularly amusing day in heaven. Maybe that had been the tipping point, he mused idly. Bit late to wonder now.

“Three simple steps.” Up on stage, Michael continued, striding across the width of the room to address each and every one of them. “Repent your sins, display contrition, eschew all wickedness. The three rules we all must adhere to in heaven, even those who already reside there.”

The questions continued for long enough that Crowley had taken to scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor to try to determine exactly what that millennia old sticky substance was. He’d always put it down to some unspecified hellish ooze. His research proved fruitless, with nothing but a waft of decay rising up to meet him. It could have been anything really; blood, guts, blood _and_ guts. Just another one of hell’s mysteries he wouldn’t need to concern himself with for much longer.

“Yes?” Beelzebub gestured to the crowd, singling out one tentatively raised hand. “Last question please, this is all terribly boring and we’re very busy down here, regardless of how much spare time heaven might have on its hands to dream up little _programmes_.”

When the question came, the voice behind it spoke quietly but firmly, and Crowley found himself standing up straight for the first time in hours. He scanned the crowd to see who the voice belonged to, couldn’t make out the figure amongst the heaving masses. _Interesting_. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who had managed to hold onto something of their original self after all this time.

“What will happen to any Fallen who aren’t successful?”

The question was directed at Michael but the archangel held out a hand and stepped back as Beelzebub paced forward to the edge of the stage, fixing all of them with a good, hard stare.

“You will return to hell to answer for your betrayal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :D. Next update is coming tomorrow (hopefully) or possibly Sunday. Hope you enjoyed!


	39. Wicked Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is it, angel. This is either the last night before paradise or the last night we ever spend together.”

**July 2020. The Love Nest, London.**

“I eschew wickedness in all its forms…”

“Eschew...eschewww...weird word, isn’t it?"

“Crowley, you’re not taking this seriously.” Aziraphale batted a hand against Crowley’s chest and jabbed a finger at the R+R programme leaflet that lay in the demon’s lap.

“Confession, contrition, eschewing. We’ve been over it a million times, angel. I’ve got this.” Crowley looked up at Aziraphale from his comfortable position, head resting against the angel’s thigh, the length of his body splayed out across the sofa. In his hands he held a small globe ornament Aziraphale had brought to the flat from the shop; he tossed it in the air every now and then, gave it a good spin and watched the world whizz by. “Goodbye, little ones. It’s been wild.”

Aziraphale sighed, taking the globe out of Crowley’s hands and turning it this way and that, murmuring the names of countries he’d never had a chance to visit. It was madness, really. Six thousand years and there were still corners of the Earth he’d never seen. Strange, he thought, how quickly time could slip by when you made the mistake of thinking you had enough of it left to do all the things you dreamed of.

“Did you leave the letter?” Aziraphale asked, leaning over Crowley to place the globe back on the coffee table. 

“On the kitchen counter.” Crowley raised one hand to point in the vague direction of the kitchen, where an envelope lay addressed to the estate agents who had rented them the flat. With the overwhelming probability of that day being their last on Earth, Aziraphale had thought it wise that they leave a letter to apologise that they had to leave the flat in a hurry and enclose enough cash to cover the rent for the next few months. Crowley had added a note at the end to thank the agents for giving them a home, that they hoped the next occupants would be as happy as they had been there.

***

When Aziraphale had returned from his last meeting with Raphael and broken the news that all celestial bodies were ordered to leave Earth ahead of the rapture, lest they _poof_ away, as Raphael had described it, Crowley considered the repercussions for a moment, before nodding slowly.

“I won’t leave heaven again anyway,” he’d said, finally. “It would be just my luck; I’d pop down to Earth for one last hurrah and get back to find Gabriel padlocking the gate. Once I’m in, I’m in.”

“Wherever you go, I go,” Aziraphale had said firmly, and that had been that. They had spent the past two weeks making their peace with having to watch the Earth keep spinning from afar while they resided above.

Crowley had teased Aziraphale about all of the things he would have to give up when they returned to heaven: sushi, feeding the ducks, daily trips to the corner shop to pick up a newspaper so he could do the crossword after dinner. Aziraphale refused to rise to the bait, countering that paradise was whatever they made it, that if sushi was what he dreamed of then sushi it would be every night for eternity. Crowley fell silent then, quietly grateful Aziraphale’s eternal dinner plans didn’t stretch to oysters.

They had returned to the flat for their final evening of running through preparations for the impending R+R programme after spending the afternoon in the bookshop. It had been a bittersweet few hours, heaving with nostalgia and the weight of everything they were leaving behind. Crowley had curled up in his favourite chair, wistfully reliving every quiet evening they’d spent falling in love amongst the books, even if they hadn’t known it at the time. He wondered, smiling, just how many bottles of wine they’d drunk their way through over the decades, how many of the shop’s books had burgundy thumbprints staining their pages after Aziraphale got too enthusiastic with his poetry recitals. He would miss the shop, all of the stories it contained, all of their shared history embedded in its walls.

As the afternoon light began to fade into the powder pink of dusk, Crowley had kissed Aziraphale’s cheek and left the shop, telling him he’d meet him back at the flat. He didn’t need Aziraphale to speak the words out loud to know he needed a moment alone to say goodbye to his shop, the place that had been his focal point for so many years. It had been the same earlier that day when he had stolen down to the car park to bid farewell to the Bentley, run a hand along its sleek curves and thank it for the many, many years of loyal service.

Left alone with only his books for company, Aziraphale was struck with the realisation that books had been his longest-serving companions. Even before there was Crowley, there were stories, the kind he could climb inside when he needed to escape, the kind that could bring him to tears, or see him throw his head back in laughter, or occasionally keep a sharp implement within reaching distance in case he heard a bump in the night. Angels, demons, humans, they were all just stories in the end, whether they were gloriously immortalised on the page or reduced to a series of anecdotes passed through the generations until, eventually, they were all but forgotten. Was there anything of himself, he wondered, that would be remembered by humanity? He scolded himself as the thought crossed his mind; it was vanity to crave a legacy, unbecoming of an angel.

“What will happen to you?” he asked the silence, taking a long look around his lifelong collection of comforts, trying to commit every title to memory. He hoped paradise would bring with it another dusty bookshop just like this one, though perhaps he could finally drop the pretence and refer to it as what it was: a library.

Aziraphale allowed himself one last glance, and then he locked the door to A.Z. Fell and Co. for the final time and slipped quietly away.

***

“Imagine if they don’t let me back in.” Crowley laughed through a mouthful of pasta as Aziraphale looked on in horror, dropping his fork onto his plate with a tinny clatter.

“Don’t say that!” the angel cried. “I’ve been trying to stay positive.”

“You? Positive? That _would_ be a miracle.”

“I’m an angel, I’m positive by design.” Aziraphale shovelled a twirl of spaghetti into his mouth as indignantly as it was possible to do so.

“You, my soulmate and eternal love, are many wonderful things.” Crowley paused just long enough for Aziraphale to relax into a smile, always happy to bask in the warm glow of a compliment. “But positive is not one of them. Funny, isn’t it, that the one cursed to the bowels of hell turned out to be the positive one?”

“I _am_ the positive one. You’re the…” Aziraphale trailed off, waving a hand up and down the length of Crowley’s body. “You’re the raffish one.”

Crowley leaned back on his chair, considered the word for a moment before nodding proudly. “Raffish. I like it. All right, I’m the raffish one, you’re the one who’s plagued with existential dread.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, then conceded with a sigh. “Can’t argue with that. Wine?”

“Thought you’d never ask. Last night on Earth and all that.”

Aziraphale returned from the kitchen a moment later, two generous glasses of wine held aloft as if they were the most precious cargo. He handed one to Crowley and settled back down opposite him, knife and fork neatly together in the centre of his empty plate.

“To the world.” Crowley winked, reaching out to knock his glass gently against Aziraphale’s before drinking deeply.

Aziraphale echoed his words, smiling to himself as he thought back to the last time they had toasted to the Earth, all of the weight of love and longing he’d put into that simple sentence.

“They will let you in. They have to.”

“Yeah, course they will.” Crowley grinned back at him, gulping another mouthful of wine. “Can’t risk me interfering with any more Great Plans, can they? At least in heaven Gabriel can keep an eye on me. The plans I’ve got for that smarmy git, now _those_ are great plans.”

“Crowley, please just…lay low until tomorrow is over.” There was a warning in Aziraphale’s voice. As much as he would delight in Crowley’s mischievousness tugging at Gabriel’s last nerve for eternity, he knew the next day had to go smoothly. The Gabriel he knew was so much colder, more dangerous than the Gabriel Crowley had known before he fell. The archangel would be looking for any excuse to turn the Fallen away, Aziraphale was sure of it. He was happy to go along with Crowley’s confident belief that his reintegration would go off without a hitch, but he had grown increasingly jaded over the years, couldn’t shake off the last minute sense of unease. Maybe he _wasn’t_ the positive one after all.

“Angel, contrary to past misdeeds, I’m not completely stupid. I know the drill; tell them what they want and promise to be the very best angel there ever was, even better than my favourite principality.”

Aziraphale scoffed into his wine glass, relishing a rare opportunity at rebellion. “It’s not a very high bar to clear, is it? Not one of heaven’s rules I haven’t broken since the old flaming sword incident. That’s the benefit of being invisible.”

“Breaking heaven’s rules since Eden. I told you, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.” Crowley laughed, reaching out to lace his fingers through Aziraphale’s, feeling the reassuring warmth of his skin against his fingertips.

“You always saw me, didn’t you?” Aziraphale asked, though he didn’t wait for answer. “Even back then, in Eden, you knew who I was underneath everything I tried to hide behind. Six thousand years and I feel like I’ve only just discovered myself but you…you’ve always known exactly who we both are.”

Crowley shrugged, stared down into the blood red depths of his wine, swirled it a little until a vortex churned in the centre of the glass. “Being told you’re _wrong_ for eternity forces you to become pretty reliant on your own validation.”

“It’s over now.” Aziraphale squeezed his hand, swallowed his own worries about the next day, forced a smile of encouragement. “Tomorrow is the beginning of everything else.”

“My last night as a demon. Surprisingly lowkey.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Blue eyes flicked to the bedroom and back and Crowley, caught off guard for once, dissolved into laughter. Wine glass hastily drained, Aziraphale leaned across the table to meet him in a kiss that was anything but lowkey.

“You really are the worst angel.”

***

As the final strains of a long summer evening gave way to the light of the moon, Crowley and Aziraphale lay stretched out on wrinkled bedsheets. Opposite them, a bright green palm and a little red plant were nestled side by side on the windowsill, their leaves curling towards each other just so.

“If only we’d had time to squeeze in one last trip to Cornwall. Another picnic on the beach, getting cut off by the tide, you flashing an unsuspecting letting agent…”

“Or the South Downs,” Aziraphale lamented. “We never did get around to seeing what all the fuss was about.”

“Do you think we’ll ever be able to come back to visit?” Crowley asked, one arm fanned out across the bed while the other hand drew nonsensical patterns on Aziraphale’s bare back.

“I’m not sure there’ll be anything left to visit,” Aziraphale said quietly, fingers lazily trailing over the demon’s chest as it rose and fell with steady breaths. “Not by the time hell is through with it.”

Crowley sighed, trying only to think about everything that awaited him in heaven, pushing away thoughts of the Earth, and humanity, left to hell’s mercy. He had spent long enough down there to know that mercy was in short supply. “You’re probably right. They won’t stand a chance.”

“What happened to them, the other angels who fell? Will they all be there tomorrow, do you think?” There was a sweet curiosity to Aziraphale’s voice, something Crowley recognised from his past self. For a second he allowed himself to wonder what might have been if their paths had crossed sooner. Perhaps he never would have fallen. Perhaps they both would have.

“Nah.” He shook his head. The reception to Michael’s announcement of the R+R programme had been one of disbelief, verging on anger. The audacity, after all of this time, that they would _want_ to return to the place that had cast them out so easily. There were pockets of interest but he didn’t envision ten thousand repentant demons scuffling their way onto the stage the next day. “There’ll be a few of us. Less than you think, I expect. Most of us were broken after we fell. An audience with Satan…not easy to come out of that and still believe in the mercy of heaven.”

“Will Beelzebub be there?”

Crowley smiled at the question, the only other demon Aziraphale had ever really had any contact with. “No, angel, Beelzebub will most certainly not be there. Then you’ve got Belial, another one who would never betray hell…you don’t want to be alone in a room with that one for too long, don’t know what parts you might be missing when you leave.”

“And Lucifer.”

“Yes, Lucifer, of course. Strange situation, that. Bit of a ringleader in heaven, as you know…I looked for them after we fell but I never once saw them in hell. There was a rumour Satan took things a bit too far during their _initiation_. Toned it down a bit for the rest of us, apparently. They’re either long gone or out there somewhere, hiding in plain sight. Always had a soft spot for old Luci.”

“So I heard.” Aziraphale’s words came out more clipped than he intended, which promptly sent Crowley into peals of laughter.

“Angel, are you _jealous_?”

“No,” came the angel’s sulky reply, suggesting that he was, in fact, extremely jealous.

Crowley shifted position, hooked one leg over Aziraphale’s hips until he was directly above him, sitting back with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Don’t let Gabriel hear you, didn’t you know envy is a sin?”

A moment later, a pillow hit him square in the face.

“Shut up,” Aziraphale huffed. “Why don’t you go and ask _Luci?_ ”

“I just want to point out that we’re discussing my only friend in hell who was destroyed into nothingness by the dark lord’s unimaginable torture. And you’re pouting because I used to braid their hair while we ate the good biscuits from Raphael’s office?”

Aziraphale’s face fell and he stammered an apology, before he spotted the glint in Crowley’s eye and let his head flop back against the remaining pillow. It was impossible to outsmart him when he got like this. Still, he would rather spend the evening being teased than worrying about the next day’s outcome.

“I can’t believe I never got invited for biscuits in Raphael’s office.”

“Too busy swinging your sword around pretending you knew how to use it.”

“I was not.”

“Too busy telling Michael how nice their hair looked, trying to wangle a promotion.”

“I was _not_!”

“Too busy asking Gabriel if you could shine his shoes.”

“ _Crowley_!”

***

As the hours left until Crowley and Aziraphale had to leave the flat to make the final journey to heaven dwindled into single digits, Crowley felt the first flashes of fear swell in his chest. Nerves were good, he told himself, just a reminder of all he had to fight for.

“This is it, angel. This is either the last night before paradise or the last night we ever spend together.”

They had decided to sleep through the final hours, give themselves the treat of waking up together in the flat one last time. But first, there was something Aziraphale wanted to do in case it was their last chance, something he had never been brave enough to ask.

His voice was soft, the edges of his words rounded as he scrolled through his phone to find just the right song, extending a hand to Crowley. “Will you dance with me? I want something that can only ever be ours, something that heaven and hell can never take away from us.”

Crowley looked up at him. “I can’t dance.”

“You can with me.” Aziraphale reached out and pulled him to his feet, snapping his fingers to dim the lights until they were bathed in shadows.

Crowley was right, he really _couldn’t_ dance, but as he let Aziraphale guide him gently in a haphazard circle on the living room rug, feet shuffling decidedly out of time with the sultry strings of the song the angel had chosen, he wondered if this is what it felt like to dance in the arms of the one you loved.

“I’m terrible at this.”

“I don’t care.” Aziraphale took one of the demon’s hands and slid it around his waist, laid his own hand against Crowley’s chest. They moved to the music and Aziraphale closed his eyes, let the words of the song wash over him as he pressed his forehead to Crowley’s neck. He felt Crowley’s other hand slide up his back until it was lost in his hair, wondered if it was possible that paradise had come to Earth earlier than planned.

 _If this is my last night on Earth,_ Crowley thought, as Aziraphale’s palm rested against his heart, filled it with all the love and courage he needed to endure the next day, and whatever would come after. _If this is my last good memory of life, it will be enough._

With the glow of their city glittering hopefully in the background, all of the tiny fragments of a life together collected in the corners of the home they had built in secret, an angel and a demon shared their first dance. And that, in itself, was a miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angels, demons, every entity in between - you are cordially invited to bear witness to heaven's Repentance and Rehabilitation Programme this Monday August 5th. See you there :)


	40. Master of Puppets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was just theatre to them, he realised, they were so detached from the depth of what this day meant. They weren’t there to share in forgiveness, to welcome the Fallen home, they were there for a show.

**July 2020. Heaven.**

The stage was empty when Aziraphale entered the auditorium along with swathes of other angels who had arrived to watch the Fallen’s contrition. Whether the crowds had flocked to the hall out of curiosity or some sort of puritanical voyeurism he couldn’t be sure but he followed them all the same, head down and eyes trained to the ground. He felt naked, as though anybody who looked at him would be able to see straight through to his heart and know the indescribable stakes the day held.

The mood in the room was worryingly light, the sort of atmospheric buzz he was used to feeling at the Royal Opera House, as if there was an evening of entertainment ahead. Silver-robed angels distributing bags of popcorn wouldn’t have felt out of place, charging through the teeth for R+R Live souvenir brochures or foam fingers to point up or down when the moment of judgement came. He closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for the bitterness coursing through his bloodstream to burn itself out.

 _Don’t attract any attention_ , Crowley had made him promise that morning, as they’d clung to each other in a final goodbye. Aziraphale couldn’t recall a single word that had left his own mouth. How did you begin to form coherent sentences in what could be the final moments with the one you love? What to say, to express the entirety of a life of longing and love cut short by…whatever this madness was?

“Aziraphale.”

He heard a voice call out to him, quickly and quietly as ever, and followed it to find Raphael seated a few rows away. They patted the seat next to them and the tiny gesture of solidarity was almost too much for Aziraphale to bear.

“It’s really happening,” he whispered, sitting down next to them and sweeping the hem of his robes out from underneath the chair. He had arrived in his usual human attire, had found angelic formal dress miraculously called into being as he reached the top of the escalator. It was considered a special occasion then. Perhaps that was a good sign. It gave the proceedings a sense of gravitas that suggested legitimacy at least, if not justice.

“How is he?” Raphael asked, inclining their head towards him to avoid being overheard.

“Hopeful. It’s the only thing he could be.”

“And you?”

“Less so. He’s been gone for so long he’s forgotten what this place can be. Rose-tinted glasses.”

Raphael looked at him blankly, the expression lost on them. Aziraphale opened his mouth to explain but then the towering wooden doors swung closed and the background hum of idle chatter fell silent.

A single spotlight beamed onto the stage, footsteps echoed around the hall and Gabriel appeared under the light, clad in immaculate white robes that gleamed with silver thread. He looked the very peak of angelic, the sort of beautiful that was hard to look directly at, like staring into a blazing fire.

“My family,” he began, holding his hands out in a gesture of unerring welcome that had used to fill Aziraphale’s heart with peace. “I thank you all for coming here today. There has been some doubt about this programme, and I understand your concerns. However, we must go forth in love. Love, in all of its wild and wonderful forms, must lay at the heart of every action we take, every word we speak, and there is no greater act of love than forgiveness.

“Today we will take a brave step forward and do something that has never been dreamed of before. We will embark on the ultimate journey of love, of forgiveness. We will open our hearts to the wicked and the damned. We will hear them, and we will heal them, and we will forgive them.”

Gabriel had been heaven’s mouthpiece for millennia beyond comprehension, had such a practised way of speaking that he could bring a crowd to their feet, or to tears, with a single sentence. That day he held heaven in the palm of his hand and, to Aziraphale, there wasn’t a single notion more terrifying. If there was one thing he’d learned from humanity it was that absolute power was nothing but poison.

“Before we begin I would like to welcome somebody very special to the stage. They have defended heaven from treachery and betrayal since time immemorial. They defeated the Fallen in battle and now, today, they will stand on stage and welcome them back with open arms. A remarkable angel, and my personal role model, please welcome the archangel Michael.”

If Raphael hadn’t forewarned him that Michael would be present for the confession Aziraphale would have abandoned ship there and then and forced his way backstage to tell Crowley to forget the whole thing and start packing for Alpha Centauri. To stand in Michael’s presence was to stare into the centre of a tornado, to see only calm but know that chaos was swirling just outside your periphery. It was no surprise to hear Michael lauded as Gabriel’s role model; they shared the same quiet menace that lent itself so perfectly to dominance.

Michael joined Gabriel on stage to a crescendo of applause; only an archangel and a principality sitting side by side stayed silent. As the two archangels paced around the stage preaching repentance and confession and penance, Aziraphale began to pray. He didn’t pray very often, not any more. It had played such an important part in his life at one time, that unwavering belief that the Almighty heard his desires, sometimes even granted them if She was feeling generous. It had fallen away, that faith, atom by atom until all that was left was a single fistful of hope, every particle of it channelled into the desperate plea that She would do something, anything, to restore heaven to what She had conceived all those years ago.

“The Party must confess their sins in totality, display genuine contrition and pledge intent to eschew wickedness in all its forms.” Gabriel parroted the three golden rules to the audience of angels who drank it up like the sweetest wine, their eyes wide and excited for the entertainment that was sure to come. “Three acts, and then paradise awaits. I beg that you show them the grace they deserve.”

Both archangels stepped out of the spotlight as it diverged into nine individual beams in a neat row across the stage. Michael took their place at one end and Gabriel at the other, flinging one arm dramatically out behind him as a screen descended, the curtains parted and, one by one, the Fallen took to the stage.

Aziraphale felt something shift next to him, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the stage to look, but a second later Raphael’s hand gripped his underneath their robes. There was unity there but something else too, something that might have been panic.

Clad in the black robes customary for hell, the Fallen filed out in quick succession. Seven of them. Startled gasps echoed around the room. Of all the thousands of fallen angels in hell, only seven were prepared to stand on stage asking for forgiveness.

Crowley took the central spot, hands clasped behind his back, eyes roving over the crowd until they met Aziraphale’s. He held his gaze for one, two, three heartbeats and then gave him the smallest nod, his eyes telling the angel to _just hold on a little bit longer_ , and then he looked away.

Aziraphale felt Raphael’s hand go slack in his, looked across to find their eyes desperately scanning the Fallen for something that they didn’t find. Their hand slipped away, and for a moment they gave Aziraphale a faint smile, encouragement laced with their own disappointment.

“Raphael…”

“It was too great a risk.” Voice quietly matter of fact, the archangel held a finger to their lips as Aziraphale went to speak again.

There was no time for comfort, as on stage the Fallen’s confession had begun.

***

Two dukes of hell had been rewarded with forgiveness and a demonic prince who had failed to display genuine contrition had been sent screaming back to hell where the penance for betrayal was a millennia of justice at Satan’s hands. With every judgement, whether it was forgiveness or damnation, the crowd of angels whooped and cheered and praised the Almighty for the show of a lifetime.

It was the perfect placement, Aziraphale realised, that Crowley would face judgement in the middle of the pack. The flaming fury of Michael’s war axe as it hacked at the prince before casting them down to hell had seen the crowd pumping their fists and chanting the archangel’s name. Their need for blood was satisfied, for now. Woe betide the final fallen angel if there had been too much forgiveness shown to his predecessors; the angels were gathered there to be entertained, after all.

“Ah, the serpent returns. Welcome back, Crawly.”

“It’s Crowley.”

That jut of the chin, tensing of his jaw. Aziraphale winced, rocked forward on his seat as if closing the distance between them by half a metre would make any difference at all.

Gabriel smiled, slowly revealing his teeth as he pulled his lips back. “Of course. My mistake. Fallen for insubordination, recklessness, disregard for celestial rules...quite an extensive list. In hell your title was just…Demonic Emissary? Never managed to rise through the ranks, not even in hell. Pity.”

The screen illuminated above them and Crowley’s official title wound itself across the board. Amongst the dukes they’d already seen, the prince, Crowley’s title of Demonic Emissary on Earth fell flat. Was that a good thing, Aziraphale wondered? Surely it had to be.

“Started off with a bang, though, didn’t you? Creating original sin. The big one, some might say. The ultimate temptation, the benchmark for the rest of hell to aspire to. It’s been said tempting Eve in the Garden that day was the beginning of every evil the world has ever known.”

He let the words hang in the air, let the enormity of the responsibility he was hanging around Crowley’s neck sink in amongst the crowd. Aziraphale could hear whispers in the distance, saw heads swivelling as angels turned to their neighbours, shooting terrified glances at Crowley, as though they were in the presence of true evil.

“The Party must confess their sins in totality.” Michael’s voice rang out from the other end of the stage.

“Yes, Crowley, are you prepared?”

“I am.”

Aziraphale stared up at him, sending any shred of love he could in Crowley’s direction. He looked so determined standing up there but the angel could see the fragility underneath, how tightly his hands were clasped so the angels couldn’t see them shaking. When the previous fallen angels were receiving judgement there had been an element of sympathy, even good-naturedness in the crowd, but when they looked at Crowley it was as though they were looking upon something beyond redemption. To Aziraphale it was just his Crowley standing there, sweetly trusting that if he followed their rules, if he jumped through enough hoops, he would be allowed to come home.

He watched Gabriel as his violet eyes glanced up at the screen, saw the flash of a grin on his face, felt dread churn in his stomach as he steeled himself for what was coming next.

“Aziraphale.” Raphael’s whisper pulled his focus away from the stage. He felt their hand on his and looked down to see his fists clenched in his lap.

“Demon Crowley, we have prepared a representation of your acts against humanity, the wickedness you have carried out in service to hell. Please turn to face your sin.”

As Crowley turned around, slowly, to face the visual embodiment of the demons he had fought so hard to keep at bay, he caught Aziraphale’s eye and the shame the angel felt radiating off of him hit him in a wave that all but knocked him back in his seat. Confession, contrition, Crowley had said that was the easy part. The hard part was letting the one you love see you at your worst, witness every piece of shame you tried your hardest to forget.

Up on the screen the moment Eve plucked the apple from the forbidden fruit tree came slowly into focus, Crowley coiled thickly around the tree trunk as he witnessed the birth of all sin. The crowd seemed nonplussed at first; it was the stuff of legend after all, a story told so many millions of times it felt more myth than reality.

Whose job had it been to condense Crowley’s path of destruction around the globe into a ninety second montage, Aziraphale wondered? Who had been given the responsibility of witnessing all of that despair, all of that hellish cruelty, all of the whispers and temptations that set the wheels of human suffering in motion? Gabriel himself, perhaps. He had, after all, in his own _divine_ way grown used to evil over the years. Were evil acts carried out in the name of the Almighty any less evil than those carried out in the name of Satan? The black and white absolutes of heaven and hell had stopped making sense to Aziraphale a long time ago.

The maniacal screaming from a bloodthirsty Caligula, empty wine goblet smashing against the table again and again as he roared victoriously at the chaos around him; the metallic slash of the guillotine ending with a wet slice over and over; witch hunters grinning wickedly to themselves as they set pyres of sobbing women alight.

 _But he didn’t do these things._ Aziraphale wanted to stand and protest Crowley’s innocence as deed after deed of humanity’s own creation played to an audience of angels who could barely conceive of such senseless cruelty. _They don’t even know what he’s done._

Missing from the montage was footage of the Crowley who had watched in disbelief as Noah led the animals in two by two while so many others were condemned to death by drowning. The moment he had sadly watched the crucifixion by Aziraphale’s side, wondering what a kind young man from Galilee could possibly have done to deserve such torture. All of the miracles he had carried out as part of the Arrangement, all of the beauty he had brought into the world before he fell. None of it mattered. The good deeds, _all_ of the good he had done, did nothing to balance out the evil. There would be no justice found in heaven that day, Aziraphale realised, only a lifelong score finally settled between an archangel and a demon who wanted nothing other than to live out the rest of his days with the one he loved.

It was in the final moments, when individual faces filled the screen, rows upon rows of them, that Aziraphale saw Crowley’s shoulders slump forward. The rest of his sin might have been based on misplaced assumptions to play up the theatrics but these people, the individual casualties, these were the faces that followed Crowley like a shadow, tracking behind him with every step he took.

The screen zoomed out agonisingly slowly as more and more faces appeared on the screen. Their number was beyond comprehension, thousands and thousands until each smiling face was no bigger than a postage stamp on that gargantuan screen.

“Look at them.”

He heard Gabriel hiss the words, saw Crowley slowly lift his head until he had no choice but to stare into his own wicked past.

One by one, the faces were blanked out; every soul fading away like a candle blown out by a breath. By the time the final frame fell into darkness, the revelation of the extent of Crowley’s servitude to hell was met with horrified silence, and all of the judgement that came with it.

Aziraphale sat stock still, letting the weight of what he had seen soak in. Crowley had always hidden the magnitude of his work from him, had shrugged it off, told stories of minor temptations, silly tricks to make fools of weak-willed humans. He knew there was more, of course, he wasn’t naive enough to believe hell was run on mischief alone. He had held Crowley as he’d slept through fitful nightmares, the debt of his past crushing him until his breaths came as racked sobs, desperate and broken. He knew what Crowley had had to do to survive, had had a taste of it himself after all, but seeing the thousands and thousands of souls laid out end to end like statistics, like dominoes, it took his breath away.

His own guilt at the single act he had carried out in Crowley’s name in the hospital that one day was never far away. The burden Crowley had had to carry with him for millennia was more than Aziraphale could fathom enduring. And yet, the very essence of who he was _had_ endured. Aziraphale had watched him cradle a puppy in his arms as if it was the most precious gift, had himself woken to hearts drawn in the condensation in the bathroom mirror if Crowley had left for work while he was still sleeping, had fallen asleep to whispered words of devotion and protection that could only have come from a being of love.

On stage, Gabriel took a step forward, punctuating the silence with two hollow footsteps.

“Demon Crowley, do you confess your sins in totality?”

He didn’t move, stayed staring up at that empty screen, haunted by the memory of what he had just seen. Necessary evil, collateral damage, the end result was still the same. All of those lives, all of that unimaginable potential, lost forever to the depths of hell by his own evil deeds.

“ _Crowley!_ ” Gabriel’s voice was a whip cracking across the room. The angels in the first rows sat up to attention, and Crowley slowly turned to face them. His cheeks shone with the tears of a lifetime of guilt. Shoulders hunched, eyes fixed to the ground, he was the cowering embodiment of shame.

 _Please, my love, be as strong as I know you are. I see everything you’ve done, there’s nothing left to hide and I love you, endlessly._ Whether Crowley could sense his words or not Aziraphale couldn’t tell, but in that moment the demon looked up and turned to Gabriel.

“Yes, I confess.”

“In totality?” Gabriel asked in a singsong voice, looking over the Fallen to smirk at Michael.

Aziraphale shifted in his seat, felt Raphael’s arm reach out to gently push him back. The archangel gave him a tiny shake of the head. It was what Gabriel wanted, he realised, a reaction. Whether it was out of him or out of Crowley it wouldn’t matter. Any reason they gave him would be enough to send Crowley spiralling back down to hell to face unimaginable torture. Staring down at the floor between his feet and forcing his breathing to slow, Aziraphale waited for Crowley’s response, prayed that he could complete those final acts.

“I confess my sins in totality.” Crowley’s voice was robotic, utterly devoid of emotion. There was no teasing pre-amble, no biting retorts, and Gabriel’s self-satisfied smile showed that he knew he had touched something deep inside the demon. Perhaps that was all he really needed to recover from the blow they’d dealt his ego in Tadfield two summers ago; the knowledge that he had beaten them, in one way or another.

“Genuine contrition, now that’s a hard one with you, isn’t it?” Gabriel moved away from his spotlight for the first time, prowled down the ranks until he was bearing down on Crowley, his lips close to the demon’s ear. As he spoke his next words his eyes roamed over the crowd and Aziraphale knew it was his face the archangel was looking for. “Known for being a trickster, aren’t you? Your reputation precedes you even here in heaven. Mr Tricksy, your nickname in hell, I believe.”

Aziraphale swallowed tightly at the reference, kept his expression neutral, though the effort was almost painful. He would never, whatever self-control it took, let Gabriel believe he had beaten them again.

“How will we ever know that you’re telling the truth, Crowley?”

 _Don’t lose yourself, not now. You know who you are, and who you are is enough. It always has been._ Aziraphale closed his eyes, willed Crowley to dig deep and find something of himself in the spaces Gabriel could never reach.

In the wake of Aziraphale’s hushed plea there was only silence and, then, softly, Crowley’s voice. It was thick with residual emotion but there was the faintest hint of stubborn sarcasm peeking through, a flower breaking through the soil in search of the sun.

“You’ll just have to trust me, Gabriel.”

A couple of giggles rose up from the audience, silenced immediately by a glare from the archangels on stage.

 _Fickle._ Azirpahale stared in disdain at the angels sitting around him. _A moment ago you were terrified of him, now you’re laughing with him._ It was just theatre to them; they were so detached from the depth of what this day meant. They weren’t there to share in forgiveness, to welcome the Fallen home, they were there for a show.

“Even hell couldn’t rid you of all that _wit._ ” Gabriel bit out the words, flexed the fingers of one hand before letting it hang limply at his side. “Still, look at those tears, just like a real human boy. You really have learned to live among the little ones, haven’t you, demon?”

“Demonic Emissary, if you would be so kind.” His eyes flicked to Gabriel’s, held steady until it was the archangel who looked away. This time the laughter that rose up was unmistakable, and Gabriel’s expression darkened into fury.

 _Don’t_. Aziraphale felt adrenaline pinprick its way through his bloodstream, that thorny fight or flight response that always accompanied perceived danger. _Don’t push him, Crowley._

He could see something Crowley had kept long buried being to unfurl. He had been waiting, perhaps, since the day he fell to stand face to face with Gabriel, to show him everything one fallen angel could be. The blackest depths of his soul had been bared to every entity in that room; they had seen him at his darkest and now there was nothing left to lose. _Except_ , Aziraphale tried to warn him, _everything_.

It was a delicate situation Gabriel found himself in, even with Crowley’s reckless needling building a rage within the archangel that was palpable. For all of the control Gabriel held over heaven’s angels, was it possible he could turn Crowley away out of personal spite even after the demon had jumped through every hoop, endured every humiliation they had thrown at him? There would be a riot, Aziraphale thought, surely, the archangel’s deceit out in the open for all to see. Had Gabriel inadvertently concreted Crowley’s safe passage through his own obsession with being adored?

Gabriel looked out at the crowd of angels, looked back at Crowley as he saw ten thousand faces watching carefully for his reaction. The archangel had spent eternity preaching forgiveness, after all, was their shining beacon of love and tolerance. This fallen angel who stood before them was wicked, yes, had done terrible things, but he had confessed, he had repented, they had seen the look of absolute contrition on his face. He had done what the dukes before him had done successfully, what the demonic prince had failed to do. Could it be that Gabriel, in all his infinite wisdom, hadn’t considered the possibility that a demon known for his rebellion would actually comply with all of heaven’s demands, that the angels would go so far as to be _charmed_ by him?

Jaw clenched with thinly veiled anger, Gabriel stalked past Crowley without a backwards glance, waved Michael forward to begin the final phase.

“Crowley.” Michael nodded curtly, a surprisingly understated greeting given that the last time they were in such close proximity one of them had been plunged into the depths of hell.

“Michael.” Crowley held out a hand in a peace offering, raised an eyebrow as the archangel turned away to address the crowd. Some grudges endured beyond millennia.

“Angels of heaven! The _Demonic Emissary_ Crowley has confessed his sins, he has shown us contrition; his soul is soon to be cleansed by the Almighty in Her infinite kindness.”

The angels burst into applause and Aziraphale felt the first flashes of hope take root in his chest. Just one more pledge, a single promise of compliance, and it would all be over.

“Demon of hell, do you pledge to eschew wickedness in all its forms, celestial and worldly? Do you swear to renounce sin, misdeeds, immoral acts for eternity, to live only with grace and reverence?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Crowley spoke the words loud and clear and this time there was no trace of sarcasm in his voice. It would be a blessing to turn his back on evil and live the life he had missed for so long. To do _good_ again would be the greatest privilege heaven could ever give him.

Michael raised their hands towards the crowd as if to say _the deed is done_ , and the angels of heaven welcomed Crowley back into the fold with rapturous applause. A lifetime of sin, forgiven, just like that. They smiled up at him as if he had always been one of them, the idea that he had ever fallen, that they had ever feared him, was nothing but a memory, hastily retreating into the void.

“Thank you, Crowley. Your repentance is complete. Welcome to paradise.” Michael shook his hand, forgiveness, and then, with barely a change in tone of voice, turned to introduce the next fallen angel to the crowd.

As the archangel prepared the next demon to witness the sum of their evil deeds, Crowley stared at Aziraphale in disbelief. He had done it. After all of those months of fear and longing and heartache, _they_ had done it. Eternity.

 _I love you_ , Aziraphale mouthed the words up to the stage, felt Raphael’s hand gently wrap around his and give it a little congratulatory shake. His hands trembled in his lap, throat thick as the threat of joyful tears loomed. He was so used to the constant baseline of anxiety that to feel it evaporate into nothingness left his head spinning.

How, after every single adversary that had blocked their path for so long, had it been so simple in the end? Heaven, for all of its cruelty and rejection and malice for the sake of malice, had become their unlikely refuge. There was still a long road ahead, Aziraphale wasn’t blind enough to think it would only be smooth sailing, but the worst was behind them. Now the real work began; how to forge a life for themselves within the confines of heaven’s gates? Whatever challenges heaven held in store for them, they would face them hand in hand. Time enough for those worries another day, though. They had, Aziraphale supposed, forever to figure it out.

In those final moments that they would ever have to spend apart, he thought only of taking Crowley in his arms, kissing away those tears, telling him how proud he was of everything he had done that day.

And then he saw Gabriel take a step back into the light.

“I’m so sorry, everyone.” Gabriel’s voice was meek with apology as he cut his way across the stage, laid a hand on Michael’s back to silence the archangel. “So forgetful, the Almighty bless me. Sorry, Crowley, can we rewind a moment? I just have to check, you pledged to eschew wickedness in _all_ its forms, celestial and worldly, for eternity, is that right? I believe there’s one last sin we forgot to mention earlier.”

There was no time for Crowley to answer. There wasn’t even time for Aziraphale to start panicking.

The screen illuminated for the final time and the image it displayed sent horrified gasps rippling through the rows of seated angels. Thousands of faces turned to look from Crowley to Aziraphale, momentary confusion giving way to cries of revulsion. Above them all stood Gabriel, sneering at Crowley as if he had just dealt his final, irrefutable winning hand.

As Crowley locked eyes with Aziraphale and the angels rose to their feet, roaring in disgust, all Aziraphale could do was look back at him as hope, and all of their carefully laid plans, fell away beneath them.


	41. Endlessly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Heaven is still open to you, Crowley. All you have to do is confess.”

******July 2020. Heaven.**

“One final sin to confess.” Gabriel clapped his hands together, and there was an excitement in his voice that bordered on childlike.

 _How long_ , Crowley wondered, _how long has he waited for this moment?_ As Gabriel vibrated with joy at his great reveal of Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship, the demon felt unadulterated anger pulse through his bloodstream and his eyes slowly narrowed. He’d felt a lot of shame that day but he knew the image displayed behind him for all of heaven to judge was the only thing he could never been ashamed of. Every angel in heaven could scream at him to confess but he would fall for eternity before any admission of guilt would leave his lips.

He knew then that the programme wasn’t about redemption or reintegration or any of the other buzzwords Gabriel had tossed out to garner favour with the audience. It was about control, about forcing each of them in turn to prostrate themselves before him in submission. Crowley had made his confession, his contrition, his pledge to do good. It wasn’t enough. It never would be while he still had free will, he understood that now.

“There is nothing to confess.”

The archangel laughed, closing his eyes as if Crowley had walked right into a carefully laid trap. “Oh no, no no no. You can’t slither your way out of this one, serpent. The proof is up there for everyone to witness. Look upon it yourself and see.”

“I don’t need to look, Gabriel, I was there. Obviously.”

“You will confess, demon, or you will return to hell.”

“There is nothing to confess because _that_ is not sin. And I should know. After all, I created sin, didn’t you say?” Crowley gestured up at the screen, turned to look for the first time to see the images of him and Aziraphale that had been deemed so sinful.

In the first they were standing side by side at the windows of the flat on Christmas Eve as the first snowflakes fell down from the sky. Aziraphale’s eyes were closed and the widest smile lit up his face. Next to him, Crowley was pressing a kiss to the angel’s hair and watching with contentment as their Christmas miracle fluttered down outside. He had been so perfectly happy in that moment.

In the second they were tucked away in the corner of a busy bar, Crowley’s fingers twisted in the fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt as he pulled the angel closer in a kiss. In the third, the two of them were spilling out from the bar in the early hours of the morning, Aziraphale balanced haphazardly on Crowley’s back and brandishing an empty beer bottle into the night sky as they charged down the street. In the next and the next and the next Crowley saw only sweet memories, two beings making each other indescribably happy. There was no sin in the pictures, no evil, only love.

Gabriel’s voice came then, bubbling over with temptation. “Heaven is still open to you, Crowley. All you have to do is confess.”

“And eschew wickedness in all its forms, don’t forget.” Crowley shook a finger in Gabriel’s direction, smiled helpfully at him. “Watching snow fall with the one you love is wickedness now, is it?”

“Confession is a small price to pay for eternal paradise.”

“It sounds like you’re reasoning with me, Gabriel. Missed me, did you?”

He was remarkably calm, standing there in the eye of the storm. He felt his body still as the last of his nervous energy drained away and everything he had quietly prepared for but hoped wouldn’t come to pass was set in motion. He would never return to hell. He had made himself that promise and he didn’t intend to break it.

With hell off the table, that left two options: an eternity in heaven, or returning to Earth to await the end. He didn’t need to listen to another moment of Gabriel’s hysterical glee to realise heaven’s gates were about to be bolted with him standing on the wrong side of them unless he pledged to stay away from the only thing heaven had left to offer him.

Behind the snappy retorts, behind the comebacks to ruffle Gabriel’s feathers one last time, there was just a demon who had spent his whole existence fighting. Fighting for knowledge, fighting for his soul, for good, for the world, for his beloved, and he was exhausted. He had never wanted to fall, or hurt people, or win a war against heaven. All he had ever wanted was to love Aziraphale and for the last year he had been able to do just that. Better to have had paradise for a little while and go out with the memory of bliss than accept eternity for the sake of eternity, forced to spend the endless eons with his one reason just beyond reach.

He thought of the last night they had spent together in the flat, of the midnight dance they had shared. There was nothing that heaven could promise that would replace the quiet peace that moment had given him. Life with Aziraphale was to be loved for exactly who he was, no conditions or rules or bargains. For the first time in eternity who he was was enough, and allowing heaven to tear that away was a sacrifice he would never be prepared to make. There would be no love awaiting him in heaven, only a descent back into endless longing for Aziraphale from a distance, the insidious voice in his head whispering that he was _wrong_ , that he was _broken_. It would drive you to insanity, that voice, if you let it.

Only one option then, which didn’t actually make it optional at all. The end of everything, on Earth, surrounded by humanity. Perhaps in his last moments he could bring them some comfort, begin to atone for a lifetime of sin. He had made his peace with the idea of death the day Aziraphale told him of the fate awaiting any celestial beings who remained on Earth when the rapture arrived. He’d placed his hope in heaven, of course, had to believe that love would win out in the end, but a back up plan was never a bad thing to have where heaven was concerned. He would embrace that great leveller, death, with open arms before he would ever refer to what he and Aziraphale shared as sin.

He thought of his sweet angel facing loneliness for eternity, had to look down to keep from seeing Aziraphale in the crowd, lest he lose his courage. Raphael would look after him as best they could, he knew that, might finally let him have the good biscuits from their office.

He would leave stories for Aziraphale, if he could find a way to get them to him. He’d been dreaming them up over the centuries to wile away the lonely months of solitude. He’d tried to write them a few times, wasn’t so good at putting the words down on paper, as it turned out. Maybe now, with the month he would have left on Earth, he would be able to write Aziraphale the greatest story of all, one that he could disappear into whenever he needed to remember a time when there was still hope in their world.

Realising his attempt at talking the demon into a final humiliation was slipping away, Gabriel pointed back at the images of Aziraphale and Crowley on screen, directed his sermon to the angels as he whipped them into a frenzy. “ _Tempting_ an angel of heaven, corrupting a divine soul, pawing at a celestial being like an _animal_! And yet you stand before us, defiant, even after irrefutable proof of your…impurity.”

Crowley laughed, looking up at the heavenly sky, all white clouds and sun beams, the very picture of physical purity. He thought of everything the Almighty had envisioned for the Earth, left safe in the hands of the archangels. _If She could see them now_.

“Love is impurity now, is it? _‘Love, in all of its wild and wonderful forms, must lay at the heart of every action we do’_ , isn’t that what you were saying earlier? Mind-boggling, how quickly the rules can change up here. Unimaginable how anybody can keep up with them.”

He looked down at the crowd of ravenous angels, baying for blood as they hurled insults up to the stage, spit flying from mouths twisted open in rage. He had almost forgotten they were there, too deeply focused on his final moments in heaven. Watching them, all of their fear and judgement wrapped into an overwhelming wall of sound, was exactly like watching hell’s demons welcome cursed souls to the afterlife. They weren’t so different, the two sides, both leaning so far in opposite directions that eventually they wrapped around to meet in the middle. One and the same, when it came down to it, like all blinkered extremism was.

“Forgiveness, Crowley, everything you’ve always wanted. All you have to do is…”

“I don’t _want_ your forgiveness,” he spat, creeping forward until Gabriel took a wary step back.

It was almost funny, Crowley thought, that taking his own fate in his hands was the final act of rebellion to send Gabriel over the edge. But then Michael came stalking towards him, war axe in hand, and suddenly it wasn’t funny any more.

“ _Enough!_ ” Michael’s voice thundered over them all, rendering Gabriel speechless, even silencing the crowd of angels whose jeering had been threatening to reach fever pitch. “A demon and a failure of an angel will not make a mockery of these hallowed halls. Principality Aziraphale, though you do a gross disservice to the name, you will answer to Gabriel and I will escort the demon to hell myself.”

Aziraphale had seen resignation on Crowley’s face that day, had seen sorrow and shame and the sweetest relief, but it was only when Michael promised to personally drag him back down to hell that he saw fear in his eyes.

He leaped up from his seat and this time Raphael didn’t try to hold him back. He looked through the sea of angels that were glaring at him, their faces distorted with fury, saw only Crowley staring down at the ground, hopelessly. _I will always protect you, my love, I will never let them take you back there._

“Sorry! I, oh, excuse me. Out of the way, please.”

At the sound of that warm, fussy voice, Crowley looked up and there, like a light in the infinite darkness, was Aziraphale gently pushing his way through the crowd, uttering mild-mannered apologies as if he was nudging his way down a row of occupied theatre seats.

 _What is he doing?_ Crowley sighed, felt boundless affection swell in his chest. _All he had to do was sit there and let me take the fall._

“Just need a, sorry, moment of your time. Ow, excuse me, there is _no_ need for pushing, this isn’t a rock concert. Now please, let me through.”

As Aziraphale battled his way through the crowd and emerged on stage, robes ever so slightly askew on account of ten thousand angels grabbing for a piece of him, Gabriel whipped round to stalk towards him, one accusatory finger extended.

“Don’t think you’re exempt from this. You aren’t leaving this room until I hear your confession.”

“I don’t want to be exempt from this, Gabriel. And I have nothing to confess.”

“You have a _lways_ been an embarrassment from the…”

“Yes, yes, from the moment I lost the flaming sword, you’ve spent eternity refusing to let me forget it. Actually, as we’re so keen on confessions today, I didn’t _technically_ lose it, old chap. Gave it away. Funniest thing, really, just…gave it away. Just like that.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers, accompanied the motion with a little laugh.

“You did _what_?”

“Get over it, Gabriel, for heaven’s sake; it’s been six thousand years.”

As Gabriel spluttered to find the words to reply and Michael’s hand tightened around the war axe they had used to silence dissent for so many years, Aziraphale gave Crowley a reassuring nod and then turned to face the crowd.

“Important things, names, aren’t they? Gabriel. Michael. Good, strong, _angelic_ names. Roll off the tongue just so, don’t they? The problem with a name, though, is that it’s just a word. Words can only take you so far. Believe me, as somebody who has spent the best part of two hundred years running a bookshop that’s painful to say.” Aziraphale paused for a moment, a small figure against the looming presence of fallen angels and archangels on the stage.

“There comes a point when the nature of the thing transcends the name. When the Almighty named you, Gabriel, what did it mean? _Devoted to God_ , I believe. It’s been some time, though, hasn’t it, since you’ve been devoted to anything other than your own agenda? And so, you see, your actions transcend the words. You do a great disservice to the name She gave you; over the years you’ve forgotten what you were named for, you’ve become something else.

“We are angels, all of us in this room. Beings of love. Even the Fallen, behind me, are still angels. None of us gets to take that away from them. That is their name to earn through their actions.

“How many of us are there here, out of interest? Did anybody do a headcount on the way in?” He stopped speaking for a moment and gestured across the crowd who had fallen silent to listen to this low-ranking principality who was daring to speak out. “Ten thousand, let’s say. Ten thousand angels. Well, we should be brimming over with love, shouldn’t we? I don’t see much of that, though. I see a lot of hate, a lot of anger, but not much love. If the title of angel is earned by enduring eternity as a being of love then I’m afraid to tell you all that there is only one angel in this room and he is standing right behind me, better than every one of us.”

Crowley’s eyes had been trained on the ground since Aziraphale started speaking, hadn’t dared look the other angels in the eye after Michael’s threat of a forced return to hell. He felt a soft hand take his own, saw two feet come to rest next to his.

“He is a demon!” Gabriel’s voice filled the room as a thunder clap rumbled overhead. Crowley shrank back, saw the other fallen angels hunch over to protect themselves, felt Aziraphale stand taller and more bold than he ever had. “His soul is rotten."

“This _place_ is rotten, Gabriel. This isn’t heaven, this isn’t paradise. This is a prison. Paradise isn’t raptures and splitting the sky in two. Paradise is feeding the ducks in the sunshine, it’s waking up next to whoever it is you spent the night dreaming of. It’s Christmas morning, terrible jumpers, even worse decorations, sorry Crowley. Picnics! It’s picnics on the beach, getting cut off by the tide, sea salt kisses, watching the sun go down over the ocean, midnight drives to nowhere. It’s ten plates of sushi, McDonald’s chips, Russian roulette with rotten shark. It’s closing your eyes and running into that great ineffable mess of love and life; finding whoever it is you can’t say goodbye to and holding onto them through everything that comes afterwards.”

As he and Crowley stood hand in hand on stage, Aziraphale looked out at rows of faces sneering back at them, heard ten thousand voices crying out that they must be punished. He looked across at Crowley, at that sad smile, and the resignation that they were all out of options settled over him. To be together now was to stare mortality in the face, to take those final steps towards the darkness. Their imagined lifetime of happiness together had crumbled away the moment they refused to call their love anything other than exactly what it was.

Aziraphale’s breath was thick in his throat. He felt the panic of an animal in a snare as the air was slowly crushed from its lungs. It was as though he was trapped in a thunderstorm, the weight of everything that moment had led to raining down on top of him.

 _Please_ , he prayed, _I’m not asking you to save me, just please don’t let this be my last memory of heaven._

He looked up at the sky high above them, waited for a golden light to appear there, for the Almighty to smile down on him one last time and leave him with a memory of heaven’s goodness. But there was nothing, only Michael, with their war axe raised ready to cut Crowley down before cursing him back to hell, Gabriel, frothed spittle gleaming on his bottom lip as he delighted in his revenge, and a crowd of angels chanting that they were sinners.

He closed his eyes and then everything in his mind stilled until there was only the memory of the two of them standing atop Eden’s eastern gate, sharing the first tentative conversation that would lead them on a six thousand year journey of pain and desire and so much love. The mistake he had made, he realised, was believing that the journey would begin after they had both safely made it through heaven’s gates. He had been so focused on chasing eternal paradise that he hadn’t slowed down for long enough to understand that this life _was_ the journey. Every word not said, every demonic miracle, every heavenly sin, every moment fighting to get back to each other, every late night spent wishing and yearning and waiting…that had been the journey. And now here they stood, together, at the end of it.

“Is he a demon? Yes, yes he is that too. But only because you gave him that name. If there is anything demonic in anybody standing here is it because you created them, Gabriel. All of the world’s evil created just because a few curious angels questioned your authority. Well, the Almighty must be _very_ proud of you.”

Aziraphale saw a flicker of something in the crowd. The first shaky steps towards independent thought? Wishful thinking on his part, perhaps. He turned to Gabriel, saw the archangel’s face fall for a heartbeat.

“Aziraphale…" Gabriel’s voice softened, took on that quality that he used to draw so much comfort from but where he now found nothing except manipulation masquerading as encouragement. “The rapture is coming, you will be destroyed on Earth. Think about it: paradise, for eternity. Let go of the demon and remember who you are. You’re one of us."

“It’s funny, Gabriel, that you should say that. I’ve never been one of you, have I? Always been a little bit _wrong_. Not wrong in the same way you decided the Fallen were wrong, just wrong enough for you to think me strange, to laugh at me, to quietly pick at me until, and this is the part that really irks me, I started to believe you all. This place knows nothing of love, not any more.” He gripped Crowley’s hand tighter. “This is love, the only thing that can never be wrong. I think, after all this time, it has helped me remember who I am. And it isn’t this.”

He tugged at the neck of his robes, pulled them messily over his head and threw them to the ground. Standing there in his soft jacket, his comfortable waistcoat long since worn around the seams, he felt himself able to breathe easily for the first time all day.

“You would die down there, amongst the little ones, for a demon?” The viciousness in Michael’s voice had ebbed away, leaving a quiet curiosity in its place. “You can’t protect them from the end times, Aziraphale, you do know that?”

“I was sent to protect them and I will stand with them until the end,” Aziraphale hissed, stalking forward towards Michael. He felt a weight jerk in his right hand, looked down to find his sword, after all this time, miraculously back where it belonged. “All this time I thought I was protecting them from hell when I should have been protecting them from you. This place. All of you, with your ever-changing rules and your judgement and your _sin_. I hope paradise is everything you deserve.”

Turning away from Gabriel and Michael, turning away from the angels and all of heaven’s empty promises, Aziraphale straightened his bow tie, turned to Crowley and held out a hand. “It’s just like you always said: if you’ve got to go…”

Crowley laughed, eyes crinkling closed as true happiness washed over his features. It was a death sentence that they had signed, they both knew that, but the choice being theirs to make was its own kind of paradise. In a flash, his demonic robes fell to the ground and he stood there in all of his raffish, human attire, proudly hand in hand with his angel. “…Then go with style.”

As Gabriel bellowed in anger next to them, Crowley looked out at that sea of incomprehensible faces until he found what he was looking for: Raphael, on their feet, staring back at him with a look of pride in their eyes that was all the forgiveness he had ever needed. There was only time for a smile, one of love and gratitude, of the friendship they had shared in those early years, of sadness for everything they had missed out on since, and then the ground fell away and an angel and a demon plummeted down, down, down back to Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, as always! Three things:
> 
> 1\. Next chapter will be going live on Thursday
> 
> 2\. I had one song on repeat when I was writing this chapter, in case anyone's interested in listening (I recommend giving it a whirl, it's really beautiful!) - Experience by Ludovico Einaudi
> 
> 3\. Your comments on the last chapter made me laugh and cry, so thank you <3


	42. Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale loved Earth, Crowley knew that, anybody who had ever come within a fifty mile radius of the angel knew that, but he had loved heaven too.

**July 2020. The Love Nest, London.**

An angel and a demon landed in the Love Nest with a suitably dramatic crash, Crowley smashing into the sofa and Aziraphale crumpling onto the smooth wooden floorboards behind it. They stayed there, barely breathing, until the next morning when Crowley brought one shaking hand up to his temple and felt the thick dampness of congealed blood.

His vision blurred, distorted around the edges as if he was looking at the living room while underwater. The outline of the television danced in front of him, and for a moment the memory of what had happened the day before was lost.

 _A hangover?_ He pondered the thought from the safety of laying horizontally on the sofa, absent-mindedly dabbing a finger at the gash on his head. _Must have fallen coming home last night_. He didn’t remember drinking the night before, he didn’t remember much of anything at all. The last solid memory he could grasp at was walking through the lobby the day before and heading for the escalator…but there had been no meeting scheduled in hell, had there?

And then the previous twenty four hours flashed through his mind in a series of bone-crushing tableaus, each more devastating than the last. Being escorted to heaven by Uriel, who had refused to even acknowledge their previous acquaintance, waiting to be marched out on stage to receive judgement, having to stand and look into the faces of every human he had ever harmed, acceptance, forgiveness…and then Gabriel’s ultimatum. The refusal to denounce their love as a sin, the decision to die on Earth, it came back to him like a long-dormant memory. He remembered Aziraphale pushing his way through the crowd when it felt like all hope was lost, the angel’s words about love and identity, how desperately they’d held onto each other as they’d plummeted back down to Earth after making their choice.

It was over then. He had failed heaven’s final test, he had failed at securing their future, he had failed Aziraphale. The last one was all that mattered. _Aziraphale_. He had been indescribably brave, had stood tall and spoken his truth, had refused to hide any longer. Crowley felt a swell of pride in his chest as he remembered the angel’s words, the courage it must have taken to stand there and stare down Gabriel, with his barbed tongue, and Michael, with their brutality.

A quiet groan filtered up from behind the sofa and Crowley scrambled to peer over the back of it, found Aziraphale face down on the hard floor, hands pillowed against his forehead as he slowly turned to look at him.

“Crowley, what happened? Did we do it?”

Crowley clambered over the sofa to him, knelt down on the floor and guided Aziraphale’s head to his lap where he stroked the angel’s forehead. “Did we plummet thousands of miles through space and time from heaven down to Earth? Yes. Did we follow our carefully rehearsed plan and sign ourselves up for eternal paradise? Unfortunately not. But what we did was better, I think, we did things our way.”

“Why are we here? Did I…fall?”

“No, you didn’t fall. I’m not sure there’s a precedent for what you did, but you didn’t fall, angel.”

Aziraphale pushed himself up on unsteady arms until he was kneeling opposite Crowley, hands curved around his knees and his head tucked in against the demon’s shoulder as he caught his breath.

“I remember Michael forgiving you. I remember the pictures of us. Christmas Eve. We looked so happy. And then I don’t…I can’t remember. Only glimpses; angry faces, voices shouting at us, saying we should be punished. Why?”

It was heaven’s last trick, he realised, blurring Aziraphale’s memory of the day they fell back to Earth. Forcing him to tell the angel everything he had given up to die with only a demon by his side.

As he took the angel in his arms and told him of their refusal to bend to heaven’s will, of the moment they defied Gabriel for the final time, he saw understanding dawn on Aziraphale’s face as he realised why they were back in London, the decision they’d made.

Aziraphale loved Earth, Crowley knew that, anybody who had ever come within a fifty mile radius of the angel knew that, but he had loved heaven too. He’d spent six thousand years defending it whenever Crowley had spoken bitterly of its endless rules, cruel judgement. As the angel shifted against his chest, Crowley realised just how much he had lost in the moment he’d pushed his way through the crowd to stand in front of Michael in Crowley’s defence. He hadn’t just made the decision to die, he had lost everything he had defended for so long, the entire belief system that had underpinned his existence.

 _For me_ , Crowley thought, closing his eyes against the weight of it. _He gave all of that up for me._

“You were brilliant. They listened to you, you know, the angels. Some of them, at least. I don’t think Gabriel’s word is going to have quite the power it used to. I think you changed things.”

When Aziraphale’s voice came it was heartbroken, cracking by the time he reached the final words. “I always knew they didn’t like me but did you see their faces? Did you hear them? They _hated_ us.”

“No.” Crowley shook his head. “They didn’t hate us, angel, it was fear. It’s what breeds hate. They were scared of us. Of this, what it means. Look at what we walked away from. It’s a powerful thing, love. _The_ powerful thing.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes as his vision swam before him, focused only on Crowley’s voice, so sweetly tender that it filled him with indescribable sadness to remember what the demon had been willing to go through to make it back to heaven, a place he despised, just so they could be together.

“Hey now, it would have been boring, wouldn’t it, eternal paradise? Who wants to climb every mountain anyway?”

Aziraphale nodded, laughing, and then the laughter evolved, as heightened emotions can so easily, into a sob that brought tears with it. Aziraphale didn’t cry very often, only out of habit once a year at Christmas when he watched The Snowman, but that day he cried for everything he had won and lost.

“All that time, Crowley. You waited for me for so long. I wasted all of the time we could have had.”

“Don’t. You can’t torture yourself with what ifs. We have now, we have every moment until the end.”

It was hopeless, Aziraphale thought, as he and Crowley clung to each other, so deeply unfair that this was the end of their story. He had always believed that if he did the right thing, if he was good, then he would be rewarded. All that loyalty had ever brought him was sadness and guilt and shame, and now all that awaited him was the end. 

Eventually Crowley wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket, took Aziraphale’s face in his hands and gently wiped away his tears with his fingers. “No more tears, angel, no more sadness. We still have time, let’s give ourselves the send off we deserve. We can make our own paradise.”

“We got what we wanted,” Aziraphale said softly, his voice catching in his throat. “Our own side, after all this time.”

***

“We need wine,” Crowley announced, words cutting through the melancholy that had descended on the Love Nest.

They had been sitting on the sofa in reflective silence for most of the afternoon, Crowley holding an ice pack against his head, where the echo of the gash he had miracled away still ached, while Aziraphale sighed plaintively as more memories of the day before came back to him, his sword balanced neatly across his knees. They’d spotted it sticking out from underneath the sofa and Aziraphale had held it close to his chest like a comfort blanket.

Aziraphale hadn’t wanted him to leave. Crowley's calming presence soothed the angel’s soul like a balm and he feared the thoughts that lurked in the darkest corners of his mind would creep back into the light if he was left alone. He didn’t stop him, though, knew that the demon craved fresh air and pavements to pound when he needed to work through his thoughts. He had kissed him goodbye, stayed in the doorway watching his retreating back until he disappeared around a turn in the stairs.

He pressed the door closed and padded sadly down the hall, hovering in the doorway of the living room as he looked around at the home he had already said goodbye to. And now he was back. For a short time. Then the real goodbye would come, the last one of all.

There had been too many goodbyes already. To heaven, to what he had believed to be his purpose, the eternity he had spent existence dreaming of. In the moment he took Crowley’s hand and turned away from heaven for the final time it had felt a lot like saying goodbye to the Almighty Herself.

As he stood on stage he had waited for Her to intervene but there had been no divine miracle, no last minute intervention to save them. There had only been ten thousand angels who had known him for eternity turning on him in an instant, gleefully calling for his punishment without a second thought.

He felt truly lost, untethered from heaven, as if part of his soul had been ripped away. What he wanted wasn’t bad, or evil, all he had ever wanted was to follow what made his heart happy, whether that was books, or lungfuls of salty air by the coast, or late night cocoa, or Crowley. Was this really part of Her ineffable plan, that they would be snuffed out on the day the rapture came, a day that should have only ever stood for love?

How would it feel, to die? Would they even know it had happened? Would they feel it creeping behind them, or would it be as simple as being in one moment and then not-being the next? Would it hurt, he wondered?

He had so many questions and nobody to answer them. The Almighty had stopped listening to him a long time ago, he knew that. And he had nobody else to ask. Except, he realised, he did have somebody still in heaven.

Kneeling down on the floorboards next to Crowley’s statue, Aziraphale traced a finger across the smooth woodgrain and drew the familiar outline of a portal to heaven. He sat back on his heels after that, trying to remember what came next. The symbols were evading him, swirling just outside his knowledge. When he tried to snatch for them he couldn’t quite reach, as if they lay just beyond his fingertips.

His fingers raced across the floorboards, drawing shape after shape that flickered to life for a moment and then faded away. His breath came in short gasps when he realised the door had been locked. He looked down at the mess of shapes he had traced across the floor, half-formed things that didn’t lead to heaven, didn’t lead anywhere. Broken and useless.

“Raphael,” he whispered into the silence. “Please, we need you. I need you.”

***

“I got all your favourites, angel!” Crowley bumped the door to the flat open with his hip, lowered his nose into the white paper bag to breathe in the salty waft of sushi and soy sauce. In his other hand was a bottle of the best wine he could find in the off-license nearest the flat, a canvas bag hooked over his arm that was filled with candles and biscuits and the little cakes that were grossly overpriced, even for celestial wages, but that Aziraphale inhaled like air in times of stress.

Aziraphale’s presence in the flat was marked with a soft glow of love that sprinkled itself across every surface like a fine dust; it welcomed Crowley home whenever he returned from the outside world, pulling him into that comforting space like a pair of warm arms. That evening, though, there was no golden glow to embrace him at the door, only a darkness that saw him rushing into the living room to find Aziraphale hunched over the floor, fists beating weakly against the wood and fingertips red raw as he sobbed against the ground, body heaving with the effort it took just to keep breathing.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley dropped the bags where he stood and ran to him. He slid one hand across his trembling back, crouched down next to him. “What happened? Tell me, I’m here.”

Aziraphale stretched out of the demon’s lap and skittered bruised fingertips across the floor again and again. There was nothing but a pale blue puff of light that died as soon as it appeared. With a sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, Crowley realised what he was trying to do. 

“They shut me out,” the angel wept, voice hitching as he folded himself against Crowley and breathed in the familiar scent of him, of home. The demon’s skin was warm against his cheek and he felt the racing thump of his heart begin to slow.

 _He needs answers_. Crowley closed his eyes as a small sigh escaped his lips. He had been there once before, all those years ago, had lived through the hopeless desperation to understand what he had done so wrong. He remembered how it felt when he fell, the desolation of being cast out from the place that should have been an eternal sanctuary. Aziraphale hadn’t fallen all the way to hell but perhaps what heaven had done to him, shutting him out with no chance to say goodbye to the life he had lived for so long, perhaps that was a different kind of falling.

Their double act had evolved almost beyond recognition over the years but one thing had always been constant: Crowley was the emotional one, Aziraphale was the measured one. Even before Eden it was a truth universally acknowledged. Demon: heart on his sleeve. Angel: celestial embodiment of stiff upper lip. Control was what kept Aziraphale together, the single strand that pulled every nuance of his personality into one entity that survived only because of his carefully orchestrated plans. Every routine, every safety net the angel had fought to keep together for so long had been torn away from him in a single moment, leaving all of the anguish that he had hidden behind a life of control to come pouring out, unfiltered and raw.

As the angel sobbed in his arms, Crowley didn’t tell him not to cry, didn’t tell him to be positive and _just try to see the silver lining_. There was still time enough to make the most of their final weeks. For now, Aziraphale had the aftershock of a lifetime of suppression to confront, and all Crowley could do was give him a safe pair of arms to lean into.

Some time later, when the stars were shining in through the windows and the boxes of sushi in the hallway had long since gone cold, Aziraphale’s voice came quietly as he pushed himself off of Crowley’s chest and looked up at him, his eyes wide and wet and and shining with sorrow.

“Crowley, what’s happening to me? I feel like I’m coming apart.”

“I’ve got you, angel. I’ve got you.” Crowley pulled him closer, gently dabbed his wet cheeks with the arm of his shirt, kissed each one of his tender fingertips in turn.

“I don’t think I _am_ an angel, not now. I don’t think I’m anything any more, except yours.”


	43. The Longest Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lost something, have you?”

**July 2020. A.Z. Fell and Co., Soho.**

“ _These_?” The man dropped an armful of books on the desk and took a step back to glare at Crowley, hands on his hips.

Crowley linked his fingers and stretched them out in front of his chest, savouring the stretch as his knuckles cracked. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

It was a game he liked to play to wile away the hours while Aziraphale was off doing whatever it was he spent the daylight hours doing now. It had been four days since their spectacular backwards exit from heaven and the angel had been spending more and more time away from the shop, leaving Crowley alone to do what he could to avoid a single book leaving the collection.

“Sell them all,” Aziraphale had said that morning, balefully taking a bite out of a croissant, not even noticing when a flake of pastry fluttered down onto the bedsheets. “It’s not like I can take them with me when we _poof_ out of existence in, oh, twenty five days.”

“Twenty four.” Crowley corrected him, cringing when Aziraphale’s face fell. “Sorry.”

Their paths had diverged at the shop, Crowley dutifully unlocking the doors for another day of milling around amongst the books while Aziraphale made noises about having to pick up groceries for dinner that night, kissed him goodbye and said he’d see him back at the flat later. Crowley hadn’t pressed him to be honest about where he was disappearing off to, didn’t need to question him to know it wasn’t going to take eight hours to buy dinner ingredients. It was a process, grief, something that took time to unpack. Crowley could wait, had done rather a lot of it over the years.

“Sir?” The man waved an impatient hand in front of his face and gestured down at the books. “Can I _please_ pay for my books?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?” Crowley fanned the books out on the counter and tutted quietly to himself. “Ah, now I’m not sure how this one made its way out onto the shelves…and this one, this is actually one of mine. We’ll just put this one over to the side, I have a feeling this one has been reserved for a private collector, let me just check the owner’s records…”

By the time Crowley reappeared from the back room with one of Aziraphale’s books of prophecy open in his hands, the man was drumming both sets of fingertips on the desk, looking very much like dealing with Crowley’s dubious customer service skills was causing him physical pain.

“Sir,” he said slowly, as if it might help the demon understand better. “I just want to buy a book.”

“And yet you came here.” Crowley shrugged, sinking down into the worn old swivel chair and crossing his long legs, heels balanced on the edge of the desk. “This, sir, is a library.”

“This is a _bookshop_.” The man flung one arm behind him to gesture to the door. “It says it right there above the door.”

“Does it? How strange.” Crowley furrowed his brow, standing up and walking around to the other side of the desk to lay the back of one hand against the man’s forehead. “Do you feel okay, sir? It is a little hot out there, perhaps you should sit down for a moment.”

“What are you…? Get off me!” The man batted Crowley’s hand away, taking a slow step backwards before turning and stalking out of the shop. “Always said this place was run by nut jobs.”

Crowley leaned back against the desk, folding his arms across his chest as he watched the man stagger back into the road as he read the shop’s sign in disbelief: _The A.Z. Fell Private Library (Loans by Prior Reservation Only)._ A car swung around the corner, blasting its horn as it swerved to avoid the man a second before disaster struck. Chuckling to himself, Crowley picked up the books and busied himself returning them to their proper places.

***

At five o’clock on the dot Crowley bolted the doors of the shop and congratulated himself on a very successful day of keeping every book firmly on the shop’s shelves. He enjoyed playing shopkeeper while Aziraphale was otherwise occupied, liked sweeping the floors free of dust motes and arranging the books so their spines were all in a neat row on the shelves. It felt reassuringly mundane, a world away from heaven and hell and the end times. When he was straightening pens on Aziraphale’s desk or washing up dirty tea cups in the kitchen he could almost pretend he wasn’t going to die in three and a half weeks.

With his stomach grumbling out of habit and the need to be near Aziraphale tugging at his chest, Crowley slipped out of the shop and made his way back to the flat, wondering if that day would be the last that the angel needed to spend wandering the streets looking for answers. He’d had vague plans for a picnic in the park the next day, one of their old favourite ways to waste a few hours, doing nothing other than eating sausage rolls and making up backstories for other people in the park.

Crowley could sense Aziraphale’s presence well enough to know he wasn’t in any danger. He’d felt the angel’s unconscious siren call enough times over the millennia to recognise the weight of discomfort in his chest if there was any real cause for concern. He could feel that black swirl of desolation that had been following the angel since his departure from heaven, knew that he was close enough. _If it turns red_ , Crowley promised himself, _if it turns red then I’ll go and find him_.

It was important that he let Aziraphale work through things at his own pace, he understood that, knew only too well that the angel took his time to let the emotional weight of situations stew in his mind. _Come back to me when you’re ready_ , he thought, closing his eyes as he sank down into the soft cushions on the sofa, exhausted after a wonderfully bad day’s work, _I’ll be here_.

When he opened his eyes again it was dark outside, the moon shining in through the windows and casting silver beams of light across the living room floor. He sat upright, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand and looking at the statue in the corner of the room. No jacket.

“Huh.” He breathed the word, feeling the first flutters of worry rise in his chest. It was impossible, wasn’t it, for heaven to have taken him back? He swallowed the idea, shaking his head. He could sense him in his periphery, after all, would know if he was in danger. “Don’t be stupid, he’s fine.”

As the minutes ticked by into hours and Aziraphale failed to return to the flat, that kernel of fear started to grow until Crowley found himself peering out of the living room windows to scour the streets for any sign of him. He’d tried calling him but hadn’t got any response other than the angel’s cheerful voice mail asking him to leave a message if he would be so kind. He had left a message. Four of them, in fact, each getting increasingly shrill until he was fairly sure the one he’d just finished recording could only be heard by dogs and small children.

He was pacing from the kitchen to the living room and back again when his phone rang, interrupting his pledge to tear Gabriel limb from limb if he had harmed a single perfect hair on Aziraphale’s perfect head.

“Where the bloody hell are you, angel?”

“Lost something, have you?”

Crowley had fallen from heaven to hell, had faced Satan’s wrath, had faced Gabriel’s wrath too, but he had never, in all the years he had been in existence, felt anything close to the fear he felt when he heard those words.

“Listen to me,” he hissed, feeling rage bubble beneath his skin. “If you so much as _think_ about touching him I will rip you apart with my bare hands. You will tell me where he is right…”

“Jesus, Crowley, what the hell is going on with you two tonight?”

He pulled the phone back from his ear then, saw the words _Old Mick_ displayed on the screen and suddenly everything slotted into place. Mecca of misfits and night flowers, that’s what he’d called the club on the night he took Aziraphale there the previous year. _I used to come here to try and forget_ , he’d told him. Of course that’s where he’d flock to, the one place where he knew he could forget for a while.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he put the phone back to his ear. “Mick, I’m sorry, mate. It’s been a weird few days. Is he there?”

“Having the time of his life. Not sure he’ll feel quite so spritely tomorrow.”

“Keep him there. I’m on my way.”

***

The dull thud of a heavy drum beat filtered up to surface level as Crowley strode towards the club. He broke into a jog and raised a hand in greeting when he spotted Old Mick leaning against the wall outside.

“Here he is.” Mick pushed off from the wall, threw the stub of a recently extinguished cigarette into the road. “Everything all right?”

“Bad week at work.” Crowley slapped him on the back, hoped the vague explanation would suffice. “Where is he?”

The man laughed, jabbing a thumb towards the two grubby red doors that marked the entrance to the club. “You can’t miss him.”

Mick’s promise, as it turned out, wasn’t exactly true. Crowley stood on the bottom step of the stairs that led down into the main room, stretched up as he scanned the crowd for any sign of Aziraphale. He’d always been easy to spot in a crowd, that telltale beige and cream ensemble standing out like a neon sign, particularly in the sea of black in front of him.

“Where are you?” he hissed to himself, peering over the rim of his sunglasses for a better look. There was nothing, no sweet tartan bow tie, no puff of angelic blonde hair. Then the band paused for a break between songs and he heard somebody calling his name across the room. Calling might not have been the most accurate word. Screeching was, perhaps, more appropriate.

Crowley turned to the source of the sound and there, clad head to toe in items he _knew_ had been hanging in his own half of the wardrobe that very morning, with a gin and tonic clutched gleefully in each hand, was Aziraphale, swaying gently on the spot.

The angel came stumbling towards him, weaving his way through the crowd as if he was a regular rather than somebody who, until a few months previously, had thought a metal club was a social gathering for welders.

“You’re here!” He slung an arm around Crowley’s shoulders, promptly spilling half a G&T down the demon’s back. “There goes another one. See that’s why you get two at once. Good tip, that.”

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re playing at?” Crowley gripped his shoulder and steered him up the stairs until the music faded away enough that they could talk. “I thought something had happened to you.”

“Just went for a walk.” Aziraphale paused to take a sip from one of his drinks. “Walked really far. Really, really far. Paid a little trip to the old work _establishment_. Wanted to stop by and see Raphael, drop off some biscuits. Wouldn’t let me in. Wouldn’t even let me step on the escalator. Just like I wasn’t even there. Shut out forever. _Poof._ ”

Any residual anger Crowley felt ebbed away as he looked down at Aziraphale’s face, twisted in confusion that he tried to mask with a series of shrugs as if he couldn’t care less about the entire debacle.

“I thought they’d…taken you.”

Aziraphale thrust a drink into Crowley’s hand before digging his phone out of his trouser pocket, well, technically _Crowley’s_ trouser pocket. “Don’t know what all this fuss is about. I sent you a message.”

He brandished the phone in the demon’s direction, his hand shaking until the screen was so unsteady Crowley took it from him to examine the supposed message he’d been sent.

“Yeah, see, slight issue in that you forgot to press send.” Crowley waved the phone back at him, where a studiously typed message explaining his exact whereabouts still sat patiently in the white box below their string of messages.

“Well…” Aziraphale trailed off, slipped the phone back into the pocket of the jeans he had, admittedly, had to miraculously adjust the dimensions of earlier that day. “All’s well that ends well. Just finish these drinks before we go, shall we?”

Crowley drained the plastic cup Aziraphale had given him, then took the second cup out of the angel’s hand and downed that too. “Done. Let’s go.”

“Oh, but I like this song!” Aziraphale hung back on the stairs, pointing one finger towards theroom where a song that Crowley knew full well the angel had never heard before was blasting out from the stage.

“No, you don’t. We’re leaving.”

Crowley grabbed for his hand but Aziraphale danced out of reach, dashing down the steps and careening towards the bar.

The problem with Aziraphale’s inexplicable wardrobe change was that he blended into the crowd like a chameleon. It was much easier to locate the only being dressed in a thigh length cream jacket than it was somebody dressed in the unspoken uniform of all black everything. He found him, eventually, propped up against the bar as casually if it was Sunday afternoon at his local.

“Two gins, please,” he said brightly, just as Crowley drew up alongside him, shaking his head.

“Do _not_ serve him, he’s…underage.”

The barman looked doubtfully from Aziraphale to Crowley, then back at Aziraphale, who was temptingly holding a twenty pound note between his index finger and thumb.

“One of them’s for you,” Aziraphale slurred quietly, passing Crowley a plastic cup as a peace offering. “You’re angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you, angel.” Crowley smiled, despite himself, gripped the hem of the angel’s black t-shirt between two fingers. “Interesting new look you’re going for.”

“Thought I needed something a bit less heavenly. Wanted to look stylish.”

“You, my renegade angel, are the most stylish being I know.” At the sound of Crowley’s compliment, Aziraphale rested his head on the demon’s shoulder and sighed happily, a waft of gin rising up to engulf them. “And the drunkest. How long have you been here for anyway?”

“Since they would serve me. Needed to switch off for a bit.” Aziraphale took a long drink, deposited the empty cup on the bar. “Where are we going next?”

“Home.”

***

“Carry me!” Aziraphale bellowed, clambering onto Crowley’s back as they stepped over the threshold of the club and emerged into the cool late night air.

“Night, lovebirds.”

They staggered past Old Mick, who was unlocking his bike from the railings outside the club, Aziraphale waving delightedly at the man as Crowley humphed him higher up on his back.

“Night, Mick. Thanks for tonight.” Crowley had taken two more shaky steps before realisation washed over him and he gently deposited Aziraphale back on the ground.

“Mick, wait!” He broke into a run to catch up with his friend, grabbed him in a hug that didn’t begin to convey everything he wanted it to. “Thank you, for everything. For being my friend.”

Mick laughed, cuffing him on the arm before cycling off into the night. “Soppy git.”

 _That’s that then_ , he thought, _the first goodbye_. How many more would there be? How many last visits, final meals to be had before the end? He shook his head to disperse the thought. He could sink into bittersweet goodbyes another night.

“Come on then.” He motioned for the angel to hop up onto his back again, turned to find him standing under a nearby streetlight that bathed him a golden glow.

“Looks like the portal!” Aziraphale pointed up at the light with a grin on his face. “Beam me up…”

Crowley took the angel by the arm. “Please can we just go home now?”

***

“Would it help if I lost the gut?” Aziraphale leaned down to pat Crowley on the shoulder as the demon staggered down the road, bent over to keep the angel from sliding off of his back. “Gabriel always told me to. Bit late now anyway, isn’t it? We’ll be dead in a few days.”

“That wanker doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Crowley hissed through gritted teeth.

Momentarily distracted by the couple walking just ahead of them, Aziraphale stabbed a finger in their direction and raised his voice until they turned around.

“Enjoy your last days, humans. Hope you’ve been very, very, very good, otherwise…” He trailed off, emitting vague roaring sounds as he slid his index fingers up through his hair like horns.

The angel’s drunken warnings about the end of the world and Satan coming to Earth were mercifully coming off as the inane ramblings of a zealot and the couple stared back, apparently non-plussed. Still, Crowley uttered an apology and slowed his pace until the couple had power walked away from them.

“Can you calm down?” he asked. “I’m already carrying you from Islington to Soho which, in case you’d forgotten, is a _very_ long way.”

“Let’s go to the park to see the ducks!” Aziraphale yelled, swinging one arm out as if it was an indicator. “Left here, my love.”

“The ducks will be sleeping. And that’s a fish and chip shop.”

***

“You want to know what I think of heaven, Crowley?” Aziraphale wound his arms back, pitched them forward and hurled the orange and white traffic cone into the middle of the road, whooping as it bounced off of the tarmac and rolled to a stop against the kerb.

Behind him, Crowley leaned back against a street lamp and held his phone up in front of his face. _I’ll just take a couple of videos_ , he thought, _I’m sure he’ll want to see them in the morning_. He knew he shouldn’t be finding Aziraphale’s drunken antics so amusing, should have encouraged him to sober up hours ago but he could count the times on one hand that the angel had truly let loose and lost control. Strolling naked around the cottage in Cornwall, racing through narrow lanes behind the wheel of the Bentley…he needed it, Crowley realised, those moments of recklessness nestled amongst the years of restraint. If a night of drunkenly rampaging through the streets of London helped him start to come to terms with their imminent doomsday, well, why would he put a stop to that?

“Ooh, I’m the archangel _fucking_ Gabriel. Look at me, my eyes are purple, look how _different_ I am!”

Another traffic cone smashed into the road, the base of it shattering with the force of Aziraphale’s throw. Crowley raised his eyebrows, spluttered out a laugh at the shock of hearing the angel swear. Had he _ever_ heard him swear before? Six thousand years…and there was still a first time for some things.

“And don’t get me started on Michael.” Aziraphale picked up a third cone, swung it dramatically around in the air. “Behold my majestic axe, everybody, watch how I swing it. There’s a word for that, Michael, and it’s called OVER-COMPENSATING!”

“That’s two words.”

“It’s hyphenated!”

The third cone flew into the air, crashing into the road right in the path of a passing police car, which promptly screeched to a halt.

“Perfect.” Crowley slid his phone back into his pocket, stepped forward to grab Aziraphale by the wrist and pull him back onto the pavement. “Don’t say a word.”

“Is there a problem here, gents?” The policeman stormed over to them and Crowley held both hands up in apology.

“I am so sorry, I’m taking him home right now.”

“The _ducks_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. He tugged at Crowley’s sleeve, nodding over towards the railings that separated them from a park on the opposite side of the street.

“Angel, wait a minute.” Crowley put both hands on his shoulders, stooped down until they were eye to eye, before turning back to the policeman. “He’s having a difficult week, had a few too many.”

The policeman’s eyes moved away from Crowley’s face, narrowing as they spotted something behind him. “Do we need to take him in until he’s sobered up?”

Crowley turned to find Aziraphale brandishing another cone in his hands and wailing at passersby to gaze upon his mighty axe. The demon clicked his fingers and a silver car came flying around the corner of the street, speeding past them.

“Just get him home quietly.” The policeman’s words came out in a rushed jumble as he ran back towards his car and sped off in hot pursuit of the runaway driver who had mysteriously disappeared as soon as they were out of view.

“No, no, no, put that _down_.” Crowley ran over to Aziraphale, wrestled the traffic cone out of his hands with a surprising amount of difficulty, and perched on the edge of it before the angel could sling it into the road with the others.

“I have so much energy!” Aziraphale paced in a circle around the demon, punching his arms out in all directions to emphasise precisely how much energy his human vessel contained in that moment.

“Yeah, repressed trauma and a bucketload of alcohol will do that to you.” He linked arms with the angel and guided him away from the road, stabbing at the screen of his phone with one hand.

“Ducks?” Aziraphale nodded his head towards the park, raising one eyebrow temptingly.

“The ducks are asleep and we are getting a taxi. No more distractions.” Crowley looked away to peer down the road in search of their Uber, as if it might miraculously appear within twenty seconds of being booked.

“Can we get chips?” It had become a tradition of theirs in recent months that held all the reverence of a religious ceremony.

“ _No!_ Okay, we'll get chips.” Crowley sighed, had a sinking feeling that the long walk home was far from over.

***

Crowley had always loved watching London speed by through the window of a vehicle. He didn’t get much of a chance to be a passenger, had spent close enough to a century as Aziraphale’s designated driver, so he relished everything opportunity that presented itself.

When it became apparent Aziraphale was not intending to go home easily or quietly, Crowley had resorted to desperate measures and bundled him into the back of an Uber. It was only a short journey, he just needed to keep him quiet and in twenty minutes he could be back in the flat with his shoes off, feet up and chips on the way.

He felt a hand creep up his thigh, proceeded to wrap his fingers around Aziraphale’s wrist and gently move it back to the empty seat in between them. “Later.”

Silence. For a minute. Just the twinkling view of London at night sailing past the window in a blur of light and colour. And then, clumsy fingers fiddling with the top button of his jeans.

“Soon, angel. We’re almost back.”

Another glorious moment of silence, nothing but the rhythmic judder of the car easing down the roads that would lead them home. Then Crowley exhaled in frustration as, inevitably, a low humph sounded in the vicinity of his ear as Aziraphale slumped out of his seatbelt and onto Crowley’s shoulder. A moment later his ear was filled with whispered words that made his eyebrows raise.

“Jesus _Christ_.”

“Jesus can’t help us now!” Aziraphale exclaimed, before turning his attention to wetly kissing Crowley’s neck.

 _Might as well let him crack on_ , Crowley reasoned, _at least it’s keeping him quiet_. He shifted position slightly in an attempt to tip Aziraphale back into his seatbelt and accidentally glanced into the central mirror, making excruciatingly awkward eye contact with the taxi driver, who shook his head briskly.

“Look, guys, I don’t have a problem with you. Love is love and everything. But not in the back of my cab, all right?”

Crowley wasn’t keen on the notion of dying when the rapture came, was rather opposed to the idea, in fact. However, if he wasn’t able to put an end to existence’s most mortifying taxi journey in the next thirty seconds he was prepared to send up a quick prayer to ask the Almighty to bring things forward by a few weeks.

“This isn’t where we live.” Aziraphale looked out of the window in confusion as the taxi came to a stop at the side of the road. Crowley slid out first and hauled the angel behind him. No longer being in full control of his limbs, something the gin had promised to take care of for him, Aziraphale got one foot stuck in a stray seatbelt and crashed out onto the pavement, skinning his knee in the process. Before the angel had even noticed the cut, Crowley pressed a hand to his leg to stop the bleeding before it had much of a chance to start. He hastily swung the door of the taxi closed just in time for Aziraphale to bellow at the retreating vehicle. “Love isn’t a sin!”

“No, but what you were trying to do in the backseat definitely is.” He glanced down to find himself standing alone on the pavement, turned to find Aziraphale walking shakily along a low wall, swigging from a bottle of wine. Aghast, Crowley stormed towards him. “Where the bloody hell did you get that from? Give that to me.”

“Come and get it!” Knee miraculously recovered, Aziraphale broke into a run and legged it in the opposite direction, mystery bottle of wine gripped in one hand.

Sometimes, Crowley thought, as he watched Aziraphale sprint down the road, it was a good idea to be the responsible one. But, then again, if you can’t beat them…

***

The door burst open with a satisfying crack as the force of Crowley’s foot slamming against it propelled it into the wall of the hallway. The demon swayed across the threshold, carrying Aziraphale, one arm wrapped around the angel’s body while a half empty bottle of whiskey dangled from the other hand. Aziraphale, who was still conscious despite the odds, victoriously clutched a victorious McDonald’s bag.

“Shhh,” Crowley hissed, helping the angel climb out of his arms as they simultaneously dissolved into laughter. He pressed a finger to Aziraphale’s lips. “We have to be quiet.”

“AYE AYE!”

Crowley carefully placed his whiskey bottle on the floor and turned to repair the splintered door, sending off vague thoughts about sound-proofing the flat. He turned back and Aziraphale was gone. It was becoming a pattern.

He kicked his shoes off, walking through into the living room to find Aziraphale next to his statue, face down on the floor in an exact impression of the marble angel’s position. Giggling with glee, he gestured over his shoulder. “Vanquish me, demon!”

They had finally made it home, but as he watched Aziraphale scramble across the floor on his hands and knees to pull a carton of chips greasily across the floorboards, Crowley realised resignedly that the night was far from over.

***

“It’s getting light outside.”

Crowley took a swig of whiskey and passed the bottle back to Aziraphale. They had made it to the sofa, Aziraphale’s legs crossed on top of Crowley’s, chips emptied into a bowl that lay between them. Drunken chatter had evolved into declarations of love right around the time the sun began to cut through the night.

“I love you so much. Sometimes I can’t bear it.” Aziraphale’s head fell against the demon’s shoulder. His exposed forearm had the words _IF LOST, RETURN TO DEMON_ scrawled on it. Neither of them was sure when that had happened. Likewise, how the black ink inscription of _AGNES NUTTER 2020_ had made its way onto Crowley’s bare chest.

“You’re the best thing about me, angel. You always have been.” Crowley leaned down to kiss him, let himself get pushed further and further back into the sea of cushions until it felt a bit like drowning. Not a bad way to go, all things considered.

Aziraphale pulled back, barely. “Crowley, I don’t want to die.”

“Not all together fond of the idea myself.” Crowley kissed him again.

“What will happen to us? Will it hurt?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think anybody does. Angel and a demon burning up in the rapture, it’s never happened before.” He reached out for another kiss. Difficult to worry about death when you were otherwise engaged.

Aziraphale pulled back for a third time, resting his elbows on Crowley’s chest, his voice slurred but soft. “I loved you for so many years, from so far away. I loved you in Venice, I loved you in St Tropez, I _really_ loved you in Morocco.”

“Oh, now you can admit it? Three centuries later.”

“I admitted it then. Just…quietly.” Aziraphale paused, eyes blinking closed as he lost himself to the memory of that night for a moment, before continuing with his world tour of all the places he had fallen in love. “I loved you when you came running at me with a band of berserkers behind you. I loved you when we sat for Da Vinci.”

The demon laughed, remembering just how angry Aziraphale had been with him that day, how the master had scolded them for incessantly bickering while he was trying to capture the light in their eyes. “No you didn’t, you didn’t like me at all that day. Said I was insufferable.”

“I didn’t say I liked you, I said I loved you. I’ve loved you for all that time and now there’s only twenty four days…”

“Twenty three.” Crowley glanced out at the sunrise.

“Twenty three days left.” The mood shifted then, as quickly as moods tend to shift when alcohol is employed as a coping mechanism. Aziraphale sat back up, fists slamming down against the soft sofa cushions. “It’s all so _pointless_ , us dying down here. I don’t want you to die, I don’t want _this_ to end. I don’t want to lose everything we’ve built.”

“I lost everything once. Felt like I’d shattered every bone in my body. Look at me now, look at all of this.” Crowley gestured to the flat, to the city that lay beyond the windows and then, finally, to Aziraphale. He ran a finger across the angel’s collarbone. “Look at you, you were always the dream. Losing everything doesn’t have to be the end, angel, sometimes it’s the beginning.”

“What can this possibly be the beginning of? I said I’d protect them all, I said I’d protect you but what can I do? Me and you against…” he trailed off, throwing one hand up towards the ceiling.

“We did it once before.”

There was no new beginning, Crowley knew that, wasn’t naive enough to believe there was anything they could actually do to stop the rapture from coming. But tonight wasn’t the night for blunt honesty; they could both do with a little bit of hope to cling to. Next to him, Aziraphale curled up with his knees drawn up against his body, eyes gently closing as the alcohol took over and he sank, at last, into sleep. Reaching over to grab the whiskey bottle before it fell out of the angel’s hand, Crowley sat back and closed his eyes, willed the alcohol to drain out of his body.

 _Ah_ , he thought, _probably should have reminded him to sober up before he fell asleep_. He looked down at the angel sleeping against his chest, decided not to wake him. One last hangover before the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed The Longest Night AKA Aziraphale's Wild Night on the Town
> 
> Next chapter is coming on Sunday :)


	44. How Far We’ve Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley sighed, sitting forward to pull his t-shirt over his head and reveal the AGNES NUTTER 2020 slogan that was emblazoned across his chest in Aziraphale’s trademark looping handwriting. “Any ideas where this came from?”

******July 2020 (Twenty three days to the rapture). The Love Nest, London.**

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was a strangled groan, startling the demon awake from a particularly enjoyable dream about fire and brimstone and the archangel Gabriel. “Crowley…did it happen? Am I dead?”

Crowley lowered his chin to look down at Aziraphale, who was peering out of a half-closed eye and reaching out one hand in front of his body as if he was stretching bravely into the void. “I have never, in six thousand years, met another soul so dramatic about a hangover. And I once shared a house with Voltaire.”

“Don’t remind me,” Aziraphale moaned, bringing a trembling hand up to his forehead and coughing to try and clear his throat. “The gruesome twosome.”

Crowley reached across to the coffee table, hand hovering between a cool glass of water and the open bottle of whiskey from the previous night. The choice between good and evil told through early morning beverage choices. It was too tempting, he was a demon after all. His fingers slid around the slim neck of the bottle but then Aziraphale shifted in his lap, uttering the most pathetic sigh Crowley had ever heard, and the demon passed him the glass of water, rolling his eyes at his own intolerable softness.

Aziraphale took a sip, wincing as he moved his head down towards the glass. “What happened last night? My _head_.”

“Do you want the abridged version or the director’s cut?”

“The least humiliating version.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, tried to hold his body as still as possible. His throat was desert dry, head pounding, tongue thick as if he’d been eating peanut butter straight out of the jar. It was, he supposed, a hangover worthy of the end times.

“Better skip over the taxi ride then.”

“I don’t even remember being in a taxi.”

“Probably for the best.” Crowley slid out from underneath the angel, sighed as Aziraphale slumped down onto the sofa and emitted a quiet groan of pain as his head juddered against the cushions. He pressed one hand to the angel’s forehead and braced himself for the incoming demi-hangover. “What’s yours is mine. If that’s not true love I don’t know what is.”

***

“I did _not_!” Aziraphale protested, holding up a hand to catch a spray of crumbs as he wailed through a mouthful of buttery toast. Next to him, Crowley nodded happily, revelling in filling the angel in on every little detail he could remember from the night before. He’d made an executive decision to overrule Aziraphale’s request for the least humiliating version of the previous evening’s events, had decided instead of wring out every drop of embarrassment. Payback for the two mile piggyback.

With the aftereffects of Aziraphale’s love affair with gin shared between them, they’d managed to get as far as buttering a stack of toast and boiling the kettle before it all got a bit much and they retreated to the bedroom. Steaming mugs of tea stood on their respective bedside tables and a plate of golden toast lay perched between them on the bedsheets, crumbs scattered across the mattress like sand on a beach towel.

“You absolutely did. Slung it right into the middle of the road, smashed it to bits. Quite an impressive display of strength.” Crowley reached out to squeeze the top of Aziraphale’s arm.

“Yes, well, that’s what you get from carrying the weight of heaven’s expectations for six thousand years.”

Crowley barked out a laugh, head thrown back against the soft headboard. They fell silent then, solely focused on eating their way through an unholy amount of toast in a bid to soak up any residual alcohol.

“Myth, that,” Crowley mumbled, speaking out loud in response to his own thoughts.

“What is?”

“Bread soaking up alcohol. Doesn’t make you sober up faster. Doesn’t do much of anything.”

Aziraphale popped one last bite into his mouth, closed his eyes to savour it. “Except taste divine.”

“There is that,” Crowley conceded, eyes flicking back towards the kitchen. “Should have made some eggs.”

“Yes, amino acids, you told me that once before. Now, as the resident expert on last night’s activities, care to explain this?” Aziraphale gestured down to his right forearm where the smudged remnants of IF LOST, RETURN TO DEMON were blurred on his skin. “It’s not…permanent?”

“Might make it easier for us to find each other again in the infinite void if it was.” Crowley sighed, sitting forward to pull his t-shirt over his head and reveal the AGNES NUTTER 2020 slogan that was emblazoned across his chest in Aziraphale’s trademark looping handwriting. “Any ideas where this came from?”

“Wouldn’t be staring down oblivion if dear old Agnes was in charge, that’s for sure.” Aziraphale reached out to trace the outline of the words, tutted when he pulled away one ink-stained finger. He snapped his fingers and both sets of drunken scrawl dissipated, drifting off into the air in swirls of black dust. Next to him, Crowley’s eyes widened and he grabbed for his phone.

“Angel.” He held it up in front of them, his voice wavering between excitement and dread. “Videos. I took videos.”

***

_Observe the rare mating ritual of the gin-soaked principality._ Crowley’s disembodied voice slurred out from the shaky video, in which Aziraphale was standing atop a brick wall alternating between guzzling whiskey and kicking his legs can-can style. _He has had little success with this seduction routine in the past but, perhaps, this will be the night he gets…_

_What are you…are you, are you narrating me?_ Aziraphale stopped then, clambering down from the wall and staggering towards the screen, red-rimmed eyes getting closer and closer until his beaming face took up the entirety of the screen. _Give it to…Crowley, give it to me._

The screen focused on the pavement for the next ten seconds, where two pairs of shoes skittered back and forth until one pair took a step back and the video swung up to reveal Crowley staggering backwards, half-unbuttoned shirt hanging off of one shoulder, sunglasses dangling precariously on the tip of his nose. _In my defence,_ he stammered, attempting the sentence three times before managing to enunciate correctly, _it’s been a very, very…very long night._

“Well, that was enlightening.” Aziraphale paused to take a sip of tea as Crowley flicked through a series of blurry photos to find the next video. “Where did I learn to can-can like that?”

“You shouted something about callisthenics, said it was supposed to keep one’s tendons nice and limber.”

Aziraphale nodded sagely. “Yes, read it in a book once.”

***

By the time they had finished cringing their way through Crowley’s video safari of the night before, both angel and demon were feeling decidedly more alive and Crowley’s suggestion of a picnic in the park had been met with rapturous enthusiasm.

“What about them?” Crowley nodded towards a man and woman walking leisurely through the park, hand in hand with a small child while a scruffy grey dog trotted alongside them.

“Retired special agents,” Aziraphale said, voice unshakeable in its conviction. “Paired together by chance. Rocky beginning, opposing views on everything from sandwich fillings to the nature of morality. Fell in love over time, as odd couples often do. He was emotional, driven by a darkness in his past. She was the logical one, kept him tethered to reality. Ended up on the run, made it to London and started a new life together. Child, dog, domestic bliss, the whole happy ending.”

Crowley lay back on the picnic blanket, watched the couple until they disappeared from view behind a small hillock. He shook his head a moment later, glanced across at Aziraphale. “Angel, did you just plagiarise The X-Files?”

Aziraphale looked down at him, brow furrowing in confusion. “The X what?”

“Just passed you by, didn’t it?” Crowley asked, one hand rifling around in a crumpled paper bag for the last sausage roll. “Pop culture, television, music that was released after the invention of the gramophone.”

“I’m a _classicist_.” Aziraphale swallowed the final bite of a baby pink fondant fancy and leaned back on the blanket, staring up at the sky and sighing happily.

“What are you so cheery about anyway?”

The angel let his head fall to the side, smiled at Crowley as if he was about to divulge a secret. “I’m going to save the world.”

Deep inside his ribcage, in the darkest depths of his chest, Crowley felt something flutter. Had Aziraphale stumbled across an elusive loophole they could use to thwart heaven’s plan? He had a knack for sniffing them out that surpassed even Crowley’s uncanny ability to find an escape clause in any given situation. “Care to share your plan?”

“Oh, I haven’t thought of it yet. But I will, don’t you worry.”

The flutter of hope died a sudden death and Crowley closed his eyes, caught off guard by the wave of disappointment. He had thought, until that moment, that he’d resigned himself to being obliterated in a fiery blaze in the moment of rapture. Apparently his subconscious wasn’t quite as ready to give up.

“You know me,” Aziraphale continued, and the demon didn’t have the heart to do anything other than smile along enthusiastically. “Just need a bit of time to figure things out. This time next year we’ll be right back in this spot laughing about this whole situation, you’ll see.”

As Aziraphale folded his arms behind his head, he gazed up at the clouds and gave his mind free rein to tick through the possibilities. There had to be something, there always was. He just needed to focus and it would come to him. It was the picnic that had done it, spreading the blanket across the grass and idly watching the world go by. Such a simple thing, something they’d done tens of times in the past, but it was precisely the joy he took in that small pleasure that nudged him out of the valley of wallowing and up onto the heady cliffside of intention.

Crowley had always said a hangover was like a rebirth, that it quieted the mind’s unimportant clutter and honed in on that survival instinct. It had been deeply cathartic, the previous night, rollicking through the streets, raising his voice, taking up _space_. He had spent too long trying to hide himself, to make himself smaller, less of a target. It had taken years of gentle coaxing to help him stand tall for who he was. He had earned it, the right to a life of his own creation, and he was damned if he was going to let heaven or hell or even the Almighty herself take that away from him.

“We are not going to die here, Crowley.” He reached for the demon’s hand, gripped it tightly. “We are not going to die.”

***

**August 2020 (Fourteen days to the rapture). The National Gallery, London.**

“Doesn’t look anything like him.” Crowley lifted his sunglasses for a moment, leaned closer to the painting and looked back at Aziraphale with a grin. “Brown eyes, he’d be furious.”

“Oh, he was. I was there after he saw it for the first time.” Aziraphale relished the memory of Gabriel storming through the corridor all those centuries ago, cursing Gaudenzio Ferrari to the pits of hell for eternity. He had slammed his office door so violently the plaster above it had cracked.

“It’s the hair that upset him most,” Raphael had explained to him later that day from the safety of their office, biting their lip to keep a smile at bay. “ _Immortalised on Earth with that…mop_.”

Their impression of the archangel had been so disconcertingly accurate that Aziraphale had sat bolt upright, half-expecting Gabriel to appear behind him out of nowhere, hissing criticisms in his ear.

Back in the gallery, Aziraphale felt a pang as he thought about the last moments he had spent with Raphael. The gentle encouragement they had given him for so many years culminated in the strength he had needed to join Crowley on stage and, finally, stand up to heaven.

“When did you get moved?” Crowley asked, as they settled down on the smooth wooden bench opposite the small painting of the archangel Gabriel kneeling down before the Virgin Mary, who appeared in her own neighbouring painting. “From him to Raphael, I mean.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, looked away at a particularly interesting patch of chewing gum that had found its way onto the floor of the gallery. “It was, er, just after the Fall. Raphael had some…gaps in their team.”

“ _You_ took my spot?” Crowley’s voice rose as he turned to the angel, his expression incredulous. “I was thrust into a pit of burning sulphur and you were ushered into Raphael’s office like I never even existed?”

The angel smiled at him and shook his head, thought about that first day they had spent in the archangel’s office after the Fall. They had been so kind to him, he remembered, had spoken only a few words, so carefully chosen that by the time he left their office he felt lighter than he ever had. There had been a sadness, though, in the archangel’s eyes, something that looked a lot like grief. He had seen it again and again over the years, had never quite mustered up the courage to ask about the memories they disappeared into in those silent moments.

“I think you would be surprised, Crowley, just how much you were missed.”

***

“Well, this one’s even worse.” Crowley tutted, staring up at the rosy-cheeked image of the archangel. It was the third painting of Raphael they’d found in the gallery and the one that displeased Crowley the most severely. “Why does every artist think we all have ringlets? Perfect curls more _divine_ are they?”

It was a small slip of the tongue but one that Aziraphale caught instantly. It was the first time he had ever heard Crowley refer to himself as an angel. That day, in fact, he had spoken more about his life in heaven than he had in six thousand years.

“They would still like it.” Aziraphale nodded towards the painting, towards the inexplicably black scaled wings and the downwards slant of the eyes. There was nothing of Raphael in the image but they would have loved it all the same, would have called it beautiful and found a space for it somewhere in their office. 

“Were they happy?” Crowley asked, and his face was so quietly hopeful that Aziraphale did something he very rarely did where Crowley was concerned.

“Yes.” He lied. “Yes, I think they were.”

The demon bit his lip, looked away for a moment.

“Sometimes I think…” Aziraphale trailed off, searching for the words. “They told me something just before I left for Eden. Changed everything I thought about the world, now I think about it.”

“Never said very much, did they?” Crowley mused, remembering the archangel’s endless patience with him in the early days, how they had sat back and let him flourish, watched his creativity bloom like a proud parent. “But the words they did say meant a lot.”

“Come on.” Aziraphale took his hand, led him back through the maze of rooms as they retraced their steps. “There’s something I want to do before we leave.”

***

“Goodbye, Gabriel.”

It felt a lot like closure as Aziraphale tossed the farewell over his shoulder and he and Crowley dashed away from the portrait hand in hand, trying to swallow the laughter that threatened to bubble over.

“Go, go, go,” Crowley hissed, breaking into a run as a member of museum staff pushed up out of their chair and walked towards them.

As an angel and a demon raced through the halls of the National Gallery and emerged victoriously into the summer sunshine, a smartly dressed gentleman stared up at the portrait of the archangel Gabriel for a long while before he turned to his wife, stroking his chin thoughtfully with one hand.

“I didn’t think he’d have horns, did you?”

 


	45. Storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had, before they fell from heaven, found curling up next to Aziraphale the ultimate joy. Now it was heart-wrenching, a nightly eight hour reminder of everything he stood to lose in a matter of days.

******August 2020 (Twelve days until the rapture). The Love Nest, London.**

Aziraphale looked up from the newspaper crossword to find Crowley walking towards him, hips swinging like a pendulum that had missed a beat somewhere and was now destined to sway slightly out of rhythm for eternity.

“Hard to fathom how much trouble those hips have caused over the years.”

“Excuse me?” The demon raised his hands to his cheeks in mock-offence, swaggered all the more for the last few steps before he collapsed onto the sofa.

Aziraphale patted him on the thigh, then turned his attention back to the crossword. Seven across was eluding him. _Dipso’s first drink_ was the unintelligible clue he’d been trying to wrap his brain around for the last twenty minutes.

“I don’t know why you don’t just miracle the answers when you get this stuck.” Crowley shrugged, tossing the keys to the shop onto the coffee table. Another day as the world’s worst salesman. _I could get used to this_ , he thought. Except, of course, there was no time to get used to anything any more.

It was closing in on him, the reality he had been working so hard to keep himself distracted from. Where he had previously been able to fill the daylight hours by working in the shop and the night time hours with Aziraphale, now his days seemed to consist of watching the hands tick on the heavy grandfather clock Aziraphale kept in the back room, the seconds draining away like sand in an hourglass.

 **Tick**. _One more second I won’t get back_ , he would think. **Tick**. _Another one. Wasted that one. Didn’t think anything of importance._ **Tick.**

The nights stretched out like their own small preview of what might come after the rapture. He would lay next to Aziraphale, watch the angel softly dreaming, wonder what plans were rocketing around that unparalleled mind. Aziraphale had taken up the routine of sleeping most nights purely because he thought Crowley found it comforting. He had, before they fell from heaven, had found curling up next to Aziraphale the ultimate joy. Now it was heart-wrenching, a nightly eight hour reminder of everything he stood to lose in a matter of days.

Before he could sink too deeply into melancholy Aziraphale’s voice pulled him back to the mundane and for a moment he could pretend it was just another Monday evening.

“Because that would be cheating,” the angel pointed out, before growling in frustration and tossing the newspaper down on the table. “Infernal thing will be the death of me.”  
****

That was the other thing. Until he started staring it in the face Crowley hadn’t realised how many references to death wound their way into his everyday life. He winced at every casual utterance, whether it came from Aziraphale or a breakfast TV newsreader or overhearing a stranger in the street. The human world was obsessed with death, whether they knew it or not.

Crowley closed his eyes, breathed in deeply and held the air in his lungs for two, three, four seconds before he exhaled. _You are fine_ , he promised himself, _you have twelve days. Right now, everything is okay, keep it together_. He had to, for Aziraphale’s sake if not his own. He had been so upbeat for the last few days, humming quietly to himself as he cooked dinner in the kitchen, voluntarily going to make the first cup of tea in the morning. The angel had hope, Crowley understood, a new kind of faith to replace what he’d lost that day in heaven, and he had no intention of playing any part in taking that away from him. So he swallowed his unease, pushed his fear of the unknown deep into the furthest recesses of his mind and held them there, however much they protested, until he was alone.

It was an unspoken element of his and Aziraphale’s never-ending yin and yang balance that only one of them could go through an emotional crisis at once. Whatever he was feeling, however desolate or lost or scared, if Aziraphale needed him then he stepped up, would lock his own emotions away for another day. Now Aziraphale had found his way back into the light it was time for his own suppressed emotions to come bursting back to life. The angel would guide him through it, he knew that, would pull him close and whisper sweet words of reassurance until he came back to himself. _Not yet_ , he thought, _there will be enough time for sadness at the end_. For now, watching Aziraphale cheerily dream of saving the world was enough.

 _You feel too much_ , Gabriel had said to him once, back in the earliest days of his existence. It was a cruel thing to say, he knew that, but the worst part was that it had been one of the truest things the archangel had ever said to him. He had always existed in a state of heightened emotions. He didn’t believe in half measures, in casually strolling through life without ever experiencing everything it had to offer. When Crowley loved something he _adored_ it, whether that was plants or wine or Aziraphale. Or, he had begun to realise, being alive.

He picked up the discarded newspaper, smiled at the mess Aziraphale had made of the crossword’s neat boxes. However many times Crowley explained it to him, he refused to fill in the puzzle using anything other than elegantly joined up letters.

“Oh,” Crowley said, as he read the clue that had left the angel at a loss. “Gin and tonic. Surprised _you_ didn’t get that one.”

“Gin and I are on hiatus after the taxi incident we do not speak of.” The angel leaned back in from the kitchen and brandished one finger at the paper. Miraculously, the words scrawled themselves into the boxes and Aziraphale nodded, satisfied.

***

Crowley wasn’t afraid of death in the same way Aziraphale was. The grim reality of acceptance had settled over him like a ripe thundercloud, heavy on his shoulders. He didn’t _want_ to die, didn’t want to leave humanity and Aziraphale and all of the simple pleasures that had made him fall in love with the Earth, but he wasn’t afraid.

They had both spent so much of their existence surrounded by death, Crowley causing it, directly or indirectly, while Aziraphale had tried to make humanity’s final moments painless and peaceful, and yet its mysteries still eluded them. What happened to the soul in those first moments after the vessel gave out? Its final journey was well-documented: up or down, it was simple enough. But before that, in the seconds that ticked by before judgement was cast, what happened then?

And what would become of them? There was no previous example to use as a reference point, no other moment in time when a demon and an angel had stood side by side with humanity during the rapture. _Speaking of which,_ Crowley thought, _what will happen during the rapture itself_? Would they die immediately, he wondered, the second the sky split in two? Would they disappear, would they burn up like space debris entering the atmosphere, would it all end in an explosion of stardust?

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft with concern. Crowley felt the mattress give as the angel slid into bed next to him. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

He looked up, realised he’d been lost in his own rumination on celestial mortality. “Hmm? No. Sorry. I was miles away.”

“Are you sure everything is all right? You’ve been so…glum.”

“I’m always glum. Part of basic training when you reach hell, how to be glum. You move onto how to execute the perfect scowl after that.” He laughed, falling back into his age-old habit of hiding the truth behind a joke.

While Aziraphale’s plunges into emotional despair were infrequent, when they happened they were intense, the bursting of a dam before he rebuilt it piece by piece until it would stand firm for the next century or so. Crowley, meanwhile, existing in a constant state of emotional severity, was used to the incessant peaks and troughs of his mood, found it easier to submerge them beneath humour. It had always been a self-defence mechanism, something he’d employed all the way back in heaven. It had become second nature to the point it was as unconscious as any other survival instinct.

***

“Angel.”

Crowley’s voice was barely a whisper, so quiet Aziraphale thought it was nothing more than the breeze from a half open window. Then he felt the demon’s fingertips brush against his. “Mmm?”

“Can we stay awake tonight?”

Aziraphale sat up, leaned back against the headboard and reached out to slide an arm around Crowley’s shoulders. He bent low to kiss the side of his head. “Of course we can.”

He didn’t ask why, didn’t need to. You didn’t need to know Crowley all that well to see how uncomfortable vulnerability made him. The fact he was innately emotional made for an oftentimes destructive combination. There would be an uptick in sarcasm whenever he was feeling exposed; Aziraphale had learned over the years not to mention it directly. Instead it took patience, trust, and then he would talk about it when he was ready.

He felt the Crowley’s hair brush against his chest as the demon curled up around him, forehead pressed gently against his skin. Aziraphale said nothing, knew now wasn’t the time for cheerfulness, for upbeat declarations about how he was going to save the world.

“We’re the lucky ones really.” Crowley’s voice again, dream-like, as if he was trying to convince himself.

Aziraphale rested his chin on the demon’s head, let his thumb run absent-mindedly over his bare skin. “I do feel particularly lucky right now. Not about the whole, you know, _imminent demise_. But being here with you.”

“How often do people get given their death date with enough time to say goodbye? It’s always a faraway thing, a soft deadline. We’ve been given a chance, at least, to prepare.”

“How does one begin to prepare for the end, I wonder?”

“We did it before, in a way. When we thought we were meeting in heaven for paradise.”

They lost themselves to thoughtfulness, both marvelling and how long ago it seemed, their carefully curated plan to stand side by side in heaven. _One month_ , Crowley thought, _from dreaming of paradise to staring down extinction._

“Paradise would be forgetting you.”

“I’m sorry _, what_? I thought we were having a moment.” Crowley shifted position, twisted to look up at him in the dark. Aziraphale couldn’t see his expression but could picture his face, the shocked open mouth, crease between his brows. He couldn’t hide how he felt, even in the darkness.

Aziraphale softly backhanded his arm, laughing into his hair. “I mean paradise would be getting to do this all over again. Seeing you for the first time, falling in love with you without being driven away by the fear of it. Being brave, having the chance to do it properly. I wouldn’t wait until the eleventh hour to treat you the way you deserve.”

“Oh, you were always kind to me, angel, even when you didn’t like me very much.”

“I remember being quite cruel to you sometimes. I’m sorry. It’s overdue by a few hundred years, I know, but I am sorry for all the times I let you down.” Aziraphale thought back to the moments he tried his hardest to forget. They nagged at him, pulled at his subconscious in times of loneliness. He had spent a great deal of time missing Crowley over the years, even back before he knew what he felt was love. The gaps between their time together had grown shorter and shorter as time had gone on; the Arrangement conveniently facilitating covert meetings in every corner of the globe but he had missed him every day they were apart. He would ease the feeling by trying to find something in every day that reminded him of the demon he can come to think of as his soulmate. _The six degrees of the forbidden_ , he had called the game in his head.

Still, there were times Aziraphale had pushed him away, let his own sadness at the hopelessness of their situation gnaw at him until it twisted him into a cornered animal, lashing out in fear. When he thought back, at the end, those were the memories he felt most ashamed of; the times where he had said something cruel and watched the hurt flicker in Crowley’s face. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he would wonder if Crowley would ever forgive him. But he did, every time, would sidle up to Aziraphale without warning ten, fifty, one hundred years later, sliding back into easy conversation as if nothing had happened.

It had been so easy, falling in love with him. Such a gradual thing that it felt inevitable, even before it happened. He knew it, he hated it, and it thrilled him. He could trace it back to a single moment, so many hundreds of years ago that the memory should have been lost to time, but it was imprinted so clearly in Aziraphale’s mind that nothing could have made him forget.

Crowley had been working overtime to try and get under his skin that day. It was his favourite pastime, after all. They had spent the day bickering, snipping at each other until it felt like the simmering tension could only end one of two ways, in a fight or a kiss. Aziraphale had looked across at him in irritation at various points throughout the day, had seen the mischievous smile on his face, the narrowing of his eyes as he waited for the angel’s prissy retort. _I love you_ , the words had appeared in Aziraphale’s mind suddenly, without warning, as he had watched Crowley from across the room. _That’s what this is. I love you, and it will destroy us both._

“None of us is without sin.” Back in the Love Nest, Crowley laughed ruefully. “Especially not us.”

Aziraphale smiled. “We need to toast to that. Ah, wine. I’ll miss it almost as much I’ll miss you.”

The mood shifted with his words, that temporary lightness retreating as reality reared its head. He heard Crowley sigh, felt a heaviness against his chest as the demon pressed closer to him. A comfort in the dark.

“I don’t think you can miss anything when you’re nothing.”

“We won’t be nothing. We’ll be energy. Dark matter. Something, at least. Thrown into every corner of the universe. I’ll put myself back together and then I’ll find you. It might take a while, you’ll need to be patient.”

“I’m good at that. And then?”

There was a beat and then their voices met in the dark. “Alpha Centauri.”

“Lots of spare planets up there, apparently.” Aziraphale smiled as he spoke, thought back to standing in the street outside the shop on the day Crowley had said those words to him, how desperately he had had to fight every one of his instincts to stay still and not follow him into the outer reaches of the galaxy.

Crowley laughed, because if he didn’t he might have cried. “Nobody would even notice us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is nigh! We're well and truly in the final countdown, folks. Next chapter is coming on Wednesday :)


	46. Wildflowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only upshot of Crowley’s descent into demonic gloom was that it had forced Aziraphale to remain positive. One of them had to be, it was the unspoken rule.

**August 2020 (Ten days until the rapture). The Love Nest, London.**

Crowley woke up alone and exhausted. He rolled onto his stomach, slid one arm across the mattress and felt the reassuring warmth where Aziraphale had laid bedside him. He couldn’t have been up long, probably making breakfast. He’d come bustling in any moment, wide wooden tray held in both hands, a cheerful flower in the tiny single stem vase he’d picked up a few days ago. It hurt, all the quiet ways he was trying to be comforting in the last days.

 _Don’t_ , Crowley wanted to say, _please don’t make me love you any more than I already do._

The demon closed his eyes, head turned towards the open door as he listened for any residual sound filtering out from the kitchen. Focusing on nothing other than the absolute present; it was a new technique, something he’d been employing over the last few days with varying results. He could hear the low chatter of their neighbours leaving for work in the corridor outside, could hear the patter of Aziraphale’s slippered feet against the tiles in the kitchen and, if he concentrated, the bubbling rumble of the kettle boiling.

Ten days. Ten more nights to fall asleep next to Aziraphale. Ten more days to spend in the shop, to wander through the park, to reminisce about the lifetimes they had lived apart and, finally, together. Single digits would come next, and then the countdown would hit a week, five days, one day. And then it would be here.

“Get it together,” he hissed, clenching his fists until his nails dug half moons into his palms. “You can lay in bed wallowing or you can _do_ something. Stop-”

He fell silent before the words had a chance to form, swinging his legs out of bed and sitting still as he heard Aziraphale’s voice singsong its way in from the living room. _Who is he talking to?_ Brow furrowed in confusion and, inexplicably, mild irritation, he padded out into the living room to find Aziraphale whispering words of encouragement to Freddie the anthurium plant, who was on the cusp of unfurling a beautiful coral red flower. He felt something deeply coiled begin to unwind in his chest, something that felt like a flare of misplaced anger.

“What are you doing?”

Aziraphale jumped a little, turned to face him. “Oh, a couple of them were looking a little dry, I thought I’d…”

The angel trailed off, recognised the rising heat in Crowley’s cheeks, that physical flush of annoyance that the demon hated. _It gives me away_ , he’d said once.

“I don’t mind doing it, I quite like it actually.” Aziraphale smiled brightly. He gestured down to Freddie’s half-bloomed bud, remembered Crowley telling him how tricky it was to encourage an anthurium to bloom year after year. “Look at this, give it a week or so and he’ll be…”

“Dead. Along with the rest of them. Along with us.” He stalked forward a few paces, snatched the copper watering can out of Aziraphale’s hand and placed it back on the shelf. “Not much point in delaying the inevitable. Might as well put them out of their misery now. Dragging it out, that’s a very specific type of cruelty.”

“There’s still time,” Aziraphale said quietly, disappearing into the kitchen and reappearing a moment later with two cups of tea. He found Crowley reclined dramatically on the sofa with all the angular frailty of a Victorian waif. “I’m not ready to give up yet.”

“They should have killed us there and then.” Crowley leaned forward, elbows resting against his thighs as he stared into his cup as if it might contain the answer to the existential horrors that his brain drummed up day and night. “Forcing us to live out our last days trying to outrun death. Despicable, even for heaven.”

Aziraphale glanced across at him, saw the utter desolation in his face, and pursed his lips to keep from smiling. _Don’t you dare_ , he warned himself, _now is not the time_. It was impossible to take Crowley entirely seriously when he sank so deeply into self-indulgent woe. His voice always took on a specifically mournful tone, as if he was delivering the penultimate soliloquy of a tragic drama.

If it wasn’t so tragic it would have been fascinating, examining the different ways they handled the sentence they had chosen. Aziraphale knew his own process of grief hadn’t been particularly elegant, had involved a lot of time slumped on the floor, whether that was from mental exhaustion or an unholy amount of alcohol. Crowley’s grief was more introspective. It rendered him morose, hunched over as he slunk from room to room hissing petulantly about everything from the room temperature (‘ _mind-numbingly unremarkable_ ’) to the organisation of the refrigerator (‘ _Angel, why would the mustard be next to the milk? Condiments and beverages don’t belong together._ ’).

The only upshot of Crowley’s descent into demonic gloom was that it had forced Aziraphale to remain positive. One of them had to be, it was the unspoken rule. They never would have made it this far if they hadn’t had each other to lean on in the difficult times. And, Aziraphale reminded himself, there had been _plenty_ of difficult times in the last six thousand years. Before the rapture, before armageddon, there had been other moments when it had felt like disaster was imminent but they had hauled each other through it, time and time again. Perhaps it was merely the finality of this specific disaster that made it feel so seminal.

It was like Raphael had said, every tragedy that befell Crowley was a mistake but not a surprise. He was never meant to fit in, never destined to go quietly. The thing that had surprised Aziraphale was that there was anything exceptional about his own destiny. He had spent his entire existence trying to go with the grain, too afraid to ruffle any feathers, determined to be what was expected of him. That final act of defiance, though it may lead to the end of his lifetime, was quietly liberating, in its own dreadful way.

***

**August 2020 (Eight days to the rapture). The Love Nest, London.**

_There must be something_. Aziraphale tapped a finger against his knee, staring out of the living room window and searching for answers. Eight days left. He had not thought of a plan. _Yet_ , he added, optimistically.

It had been a long day, the type of day that was packed full of so much goodness from dawn to dusk that, by the time evening rolled around, all you could do was collapse happily onto the sofa and sigh contentedly.

Crowley had woken him that morning with a long, leisurely kiss, ushered him out of bed and promised a day of adventures. They’d enjoyed breakfast at the little cafe down the street that did particularly delectable things to the holy trinity of eggs, cream and butter, Crowley’s calf pressed warmly against his under the table as he shared his plans for the day.

“Somewhere we’ve never visited”, he said with a smile, fork waving in the air to highlight each word, “little things we never made time to do”.

After that had been a lively drive up to Highgate, the Bentley getting a chance to stretch its metaphorical wings as it flew through the city streets, narrowly missing pedestrians and cars alike. Aziraphale wailed his customary refrain about speed limits, had hung out the window to holler apologies behind them after Crowley blasted down a toll road without even pausing to chuck a token fiver out of the window. The demon cackled around every sharp bend, drummed a rhythm on the steering wheel to echo the beat of the songs that served as the soundtrack to their journey.

The rest of the morning had been spent ambling hand in hand through Highgate Cemetery. Aziraphale had been unsure when Crowley had first mentioned it, didn’t think that spending hours walking through the playground of the dead was the best idea given how tenuous their grip on positivity was. He was happy to be proved wrong, had watched Crowley look up into the canopy of trees that overhung the winding pathway and smile, eyes closed, as tranquility relaxed the lines around his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the demon had murmured then, sliding both arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and pulling him close, sunshine streaming through the trees and dappling their backs. “I let it get the best of me these last few days.”

Aziraphale took his face in his hands, swept one finger across his forehead to brush back a stray lick of hair, kissed him gently. “You’ll owe me an apology the day I have to carry you home from the other side of London after you disappeared to drown your sorrows.”

“That _is_ true. And don’t forget about…”

“If you say _the taxi incident_ , Crowley.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, tugged the demon further down the path, chattering loudly about where they might find the specific gravestone they were searching for.

“I don’t know what it was that tipped the driver off,” Crowley continued, voice rising in volume as Aziraphale tried to drown him out. “I can only assume it was the slurping from the backseat.”

“ _Crowley_.”

“I think at one point you shouted something about the hellfire in my jeans.”

“Crowley, please, there are _people_ around.”

“Didn’t bother you that night though, did it, eh? What was the other thing you said? Hang on, let me get it right. You, Aziraphale, protector of humanity, said to me _I’m going to get the demon out of you with my holy water_.”

“ _CROWLEY, PLEASE!”_

“Oh, here it is.” Smiling innocently, Crowley came to stop in front of the Rossetti family plot as Aziraphale tore along behind him, shooting apologetic glances at passersby who were caught in the crossfire.

“I used to be so afraid of everything I wanted to say to you,” Aziraphale sighed, taking Crowley’s hand as they stood side by side in front of the grave, sheltered by low hanging branches and thick waxy leaves. Her final resting place looked as though it was emerging from a jungle, from another world beyond the one they stood in. “She gave me the words.”

Crowley smiled, remembering nights spent in the bookshop listening to Aziraphale read to him. His voice would be confident, practised, until the hours would draw on and he would bury his nose in a thick tome of poetry searching for just the right words. He would change then, his voice coming quietly, as if he could take the words back at any time if they were only a whisper.

“Somehow she knew what was inside our hearts better than we did.” Aziraphale leaned in to read the inscription on the headstone.

“All those years we spent hiding behind other people’s words instead of our own.” Next to him, Crowley laughed, squinting up at the sky as if every human artist and poet and songwriter who had played a role in their destiny might appear there at any moment. “It’s the age old question, angel, how many humans does it take to make an angel and a demon fall in love?”

“Too many, and also none at all.”

***

_Remember me when I am gone away,_

_Gone far away into the silent land;_

_When you can no more hold me by the hand,_

_Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay._

 

_\- Remember (Christina Rossetti)_

***

A crash from the kitchen pulled Aziraphale out of his happy recollection of a day very well spent. It was a sharp sound, glass splintering against metal. A faint echo and then silence.

“Everything all right in there?”

When there was no reply Aziraphale heaved himself up from the sofa and pottered into the kitchen to find Crowley with his back to him, hands braced on either side of the sink, motionless except for the trembling of his shoulders. Blood dripped rhythmically from one fingertip, a hollow _thud, thud, thud_ into the sink. From Crowley’s mouth came tiny gasping breaths, the sound of somebody trying to keep it together, forcing themselves to stop crying before it had really even begun.

Sensing the angel standing behind him, he straightened up and lowered his head, wiping his eyes roughly with the sleeve of his shirt as he turned around.

“Slipped right out of my hand,” he murmured, laughing shakily, gesturing down to the broken glass in the sink.

“You’re hurt.” Aziraphale tugged a clean tea towel from a nearby drawer, wrapped it gently around the gash in the demon’s index finger. His words felt as though they might just be the grossest understatement in eternity. He looked up at Crowley’s red-rimmed eyes as he pressed the towel against his hand, covered it with his own and held it tightly. It could have been miracled away in a second, the scratch, and yet neither made the move to do so. “You don’t have to hide from me, my love.”

It might have been Aziraphale’s words, or the gentle hand he laid on Crowley’s cheek, or the way the moonlight caught the angel’s eyes just so, or any one of a million things, but something in Crowley broke in that moment.

“I had one life, angel.” His words came out as a sob, a sound that hung heavy with the weight of regret. “I did so much evil with it. I could have been good, I was created for good. Now my time is almost up and all I’ll leave behind me is misery.”

“You have done so much more good than you’ll ever know.” Aziraphale held him close, reaching up to cradle his demon’s head against his shoulder. “You made my life good, at least. All you had to do was be in it. You saved me so many times; I used to think of you as my guardian angel.”

Thoughts of the road not travelled swirled in Crowley’s mind, of all the thousands of ways life would have been different if he hadn’t fallen. Would they have found their way to each other in heaven? Crossed paths on the way to Raphael’s office, felt that spark? He blinked away the imagined memory. “I haven’t been an angel for a long time.”

“You have been to me.”

Crowley bit his lip, pressed his forehead to the shoulder of Aziraphale’s jacket and finally whispered the truth. “I wish I could leave them with something good, make something beautiful one last time.”

***

**August 2020 (Seven days until the rapture). Lambeth, London.**

“Where are we going?” Crowley allowed himself to get tugged along behind Aziraphale, who had been leading him in silence for miles, turning to look back every now and then and smile as though he was about to share a secret. “We’ve been walking for hours.”

Aziraphale pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket with his spare hand. “It’s been less than an hour, Crowley, don’t be dramatic. We’ll be there soon. Patience…”

“…is a virtue, yes, you’ve said that once or twice before. Not sure if you noticed but time is, and I really can’t stress this enough, of the essence.”

It was close to midnight by the time Aziraphale slowed to a stop and let go of Crowley’s hand, holding open the neat cut in the chain link fence to usher the demon through. He clambered in behind him and took a few steps over the uneven ground, the earth baked into solid clay by the unrelenting summer sunshine. Still, despite its sad appearance, Aziraphale could feel residual love rise up from its depths, like an old dog waking up after a long sleep. This place had been cared for once, a refuge for those who needed to escape, to wander amongst nature and have somewhere to breathe. That had been many years ago, before budget cuts and red tape, back when life was about more than just survival. It had gone to ruin long ago, a graveyard where community and beauty for the sake of beauty had been long since buried.

Crowley looked around at the wasteland in front of them, pushed his glasses up into his hairline and turned to Aziraphale. “Why have you brought me here, angel?”

“So you can make something beautiful. One last time.”

There had been times throughout Crowley’s existence, rather a lot of them, when the love he had for Aziraphale had felt like something beyond measure. Something indescribable, too big to hold onto. He thought of those moments as his life’s highlight reel; the memories he had clung to when he could just as easily have sunk into the darkness. It was the push he had needed that day in Tadfield, to hold onto the antichrist and the angel and pull them somewhere else, buy them that time they’d so desperately needed. In that moment, as he stepped forward into the ruined place that had once been a garden, felt Aziraphale’s hand slip from his as the angel stayed put, he loved him more than he ever had.

“What if I can’t make anything any more? What if it’s too late?”

Aziraphale watched him take those first cautious steps towards the life he had left behind so long ago, smiled encouragingly when he turned back with uncertainty in his eyes.

“Create whatever is in your heart, whatever you love. Let it bloom.”

 _Bloom_. Crowley looked up into the darkness, into the stars that watched them from high above. How long ago had it been, he wondered, since he had first walked among the stars with Raphael? He thought of the earliest days, of the memories that were forever lodged in his periphery, infallible to the ravages of time, those transformative centuries spent by the archangel’s side; watching, learning and, then, creating.

There had been countless times when loving Aziraphale had made him weak, as many times when it had made him hopeful or furious or indescribably happy; that night, when Aziraphale gave him the gift of creation, he felt only strength. It was somehow both the smallest and most infinite gesture, the opportunity to be himself, his true self, one more time. It was redemption, the kind he had dreamed of but failed to find within heaven’s gates.

“To work,” the demon whispered, and then he began.

He bent low to the ground, pulled tree trunks from the earth and sent them sprawling high above, gnarled branches twisting out and pushing forth wide, damp leaves, stretching around the perimeter of the abandoned park until they formed a meandering woodland. A small path wound its way amongst them, sprays of snow drops and bluebells and happy yellow daffodils rearing their heads as if waking from a dream. Seasons were irrelevant within this space, this land knew only to bloom with all the beauty one fallen angel had carried, hidden, in his heart for six thousand years.

As he moved further into the park it was like shaking out a stone in his shoe that had been there for a century, the relief at seeing those little green shoots twist up from the cracked clay and rise up, up, up into the night until they were thick emerald stems, ruby red flowers the size of a fist springing to life in the darkness.

“For the nighttime wanderers,” he murmured thoughtfully, trailing one hand gently along the ground and leaving moonflowers in his wake, silken white cups opening behind him and greeting the moon.

Under the velvet sky pinpricked with winking stars, Crowley transformed the wasteland into a slice of utopia, filled every nook with the most beautiful flowers and trees. Ideas he had brought to every corner of the globe nestled side by side, swaying gently in the wind and filling the night time air with heavenly perfume.

The powdered floral scent of rose wrapped around Aziraphale like an old friend and he watched Crowley dream up a bush of deep pink roses that climbed up against the rusted chain link fence, transforming it into a jewelled wall of greenery. _Morocco_ , the angel thought, laughing at the inescapable reminder. He looked around and saw the world laid out in front of him: Rome, Paris, Malta, the Cornish coast, even a cluster of purple lupins to represent Iceland. They were all there, the places they’d visited over the centuries, a flowering map of their love story through the ages.

As Crowley brought paradise to one grey area of London, Aziraphale saw everything that he was; all that he was before he fell, all that he could have been. _How much beauty did the world lose out on after he was cast out_ , he wondered? The angel watched him in awe, watched the burden his soul had carried for so long slip away with every new flower he breathed life into. He was radiant, angelic in a way none of them in heaven could have dreamed of being.

It was there in Crowley’s garden, as he watched his soulmate finally find peace after a lifetime of longing for it, that Aziraphale accepted whatever fate the rapture held for them. Death or oblivion or eternal life, what did it matter after one life on Earth, well-lived and full? It was Crowley who had been so desperate to do good one last time but it was Aziraphale who found himself grateful for the last heavenly act he had been able to carry out; to give the love of his life one last night as an angel.

Crowley dusted his hands off on the thighs of his jeans, turned in a slow circle to take in his handiwork and smiled. It was good. There was just one thing left to do. He knelt down and pressed both hands to the cracked, dusty ground. Anything could be reborn, he knew that now, anything could become beautiful again with patience, with love. As he stood up the first drops of rain began to fall, kissing the parched earth and soaking into the cracks like a balm to soothe away long-suffered aches.

Aziraphale looked up into the torrent of rain, felt droplets splash onto his face, mixing with tears as they streaked across his skin. He let Crowley lead him through the garden, stumbled down its paths in wonder as he looked upon everything the demon had pulled into being.

“Eden,” he breathed. “Everything it should have been.”

“Not Eden, angel. Ours.”

Amid the wildflowers that had been the silent backdrop to all of the places in which they’d lived and loved throughout eternity, two angels kissed by the fading light of the moon as a new day began to bloom on the horizon. And when London awoke that morning they found that paradise had come to one corner of the city a week ahead of schedule. _Heaven on Earth_ , the headlines read, _A Miracle_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, the next upload will be on Friday - the penultimate one 😱.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me for this long and for all the amazing support and comments, it's been a huge motivator!
> 
> <3


	47. Don't Dream It's Over (Don't Dream, It's Over)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Crowley,” he said, voice raised as he leaned over the arm of the sofa to call out to the demon who was clattering about in the kitchen, wine in hand. “Do you ever think about all the forks in the road, how different things might have been?”

**August 2020 (One day until the rapture). Crowley’s Garden, London.**

Crowley sat alone on a bench in the garden. He watched. He had visited it a lot over the past few days. Sometimes Aziraphale sat quietly beside him, sometimes he sat alone. He was content there, watching people walk among his creations, stooping low to inhale the scent of a flower as they took a moment to exhale and be still.

He was tired, the sort of indescribable bone-weariness that could only come at the end of a very long lifetime. It was peaceful, sitting in the sun and watching the world go by as it would continue to do the next day and, perhaps, the next. He rolled up his sleeves, felt warmth spread slowly across his skin like thick honey, turning everything in its path gold. Above him, birds flitted through the trees, calling to each other, singing a song fit for a perfect summer day. There were voices too, and if he closed his eyes he could hear them all. Happiness, that was the thread tying them all together. People were happy here and he had been able to give that to them.

The need to leave a legacy should have been a uniquely human desire. After all, what did a legacy matter when you were immortal? Crowley had been thinking a lot about legacies, whether the Earth would remember his impact after he left it. His role in creation could never be torn away, not even by every angel in heaven, but that was before he fell. After he fell? There was just the garden, infinitesimal in the scheme of all human history, but enough.

He felt a soft sound next to him, a pleasant sigh before lips brushed against his cheek. Aziraphale. The reason for everything, always. The only thing that had ever been worth the risk. Crowley turned to him, reached out a hand.

They strolled the long way through the garden, Crowley pointing out the names of trees and flowers while Aziraphale committed each and every one to memory. The angel suspected there were a few new additions to the garden that day. One last flourish.

They paused at the gate, Crowley turning back for a last look while Aziraphale plucked a rose from the trailing bush that wound its way around the fence. Persisting. He brought it close to his face and inhaled, eyes closed as he let the scent carry him back to another time.

Next to him, Crowley turned away from the garden, stepping through the gate. “Home, angel?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Home.”

***

**August 2020 (One day until the rapture). The Love Nest, London.**

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out from the living room. “Can you come here?”

The demon sat up from his very important task of staring blankly at the ceiling thinking about death and joined the angel on the sofa, where he found him running a finger along the underside of an envelope. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“A little trip down memory lane.” Aziraphale smiled, patting Crowley’s knee with one hand as he slid the thick wedge of photos out of the envelope with the other. He propped the photos up on his thighs and began leafing through them one by one. The first was a rather abstract view of the bookshop ceiling, which Crowley held up between them, laughing delightedly.

“Now this one, well, you’d have broken my heart if you didn’t get this masterpiece printed.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, plucked it out of the demon’s hand and shuffled it to the back of the pack. “I’d like to see your first foray into mobile photography, honestly. It’s _sentimental_ , Crowley.”

“I know, angel, it’s lovely, really. I would have been devastated if I’d been ushered into the abyss without a final look at the cracks in your ceiling.”

The angel slapped his chest. “That’s quite enough of that.”

“I just have to say…”

“Oh, you just _have_ to, do you?”

“…I know you’re new to the whole technology thing but all of these photos are right there.” Crowley flicked a finger against the screen of Aziraphale’s phone, relished the satisfying clunk of his nail against the glass.

Aziraphale ignored the sarcasm in his voice, was too wrapped up in looking down at two happy faces staring back at him from the pictures in his lap. “I wanted to hold them in my hands. It makes them real.”

For once, Crowley didn’t have a comeback ready to fire off in response. Instead he quietly mulled over Aziraphale’s words as they passed photos back and forth, pausing every few moments to relay the story of when it had been taken. It was the first time, Crowley realised, that he had anything other than memories to rely on. To hold a record of their last years together in his hands, to see their faces, smiling and in love, it was a reminder that everything they had endured - the highs, the lows, the romance and chaos and madness of it all, it had been real. Every moment.

As afternoon began to tiptoe into evening, Aziraphale busied himself with choosing the perfect wine. _The final tipple_ , he thought, pawing through the bottles they’d accumulated over the months, tutting to himself as he realised just how many Crowley had covertly stashed in the cupboard, _I told him we’d never have time to drink all of these._

Crowley had left the angel to it, had never been that picky about wine, if he was honest. If it was wet and red he was happy enough. He continued on with Aziraphale’s photo diary of the last two years: the pictures they’d sent each other to bridge the gap during that agonising year of forced separation, rolling waves taken from the top of the cliffs in Cornwall, sneaky shots Aziraphale had taken of him speaking with potential customers and embellishing dramatic reasons why he couldn’t possibly sell them a book. They were all there, every little moment from the otherworldly to the mundane.

He paused on one picture, almost at the end of the stack. He’d taken the photo himself a few days ago during that last seaside trip they’d managed to squeeze in that week. They’d had to huddle together to fit in the frame, the crown of his head pressed to Aziraphale’s temple, the angel’s hair transformed into a blazing fire in the sunset. He traced the outline of Aziraphale’s face with one finger, marvelled at how beautiful he was, how blissful he looked to be there.

Memories could obscure the truth, he realised, blur themselves around the edges over time and hide things you never even knew were there. Memories were told from a single perspective, after all. Photographs were the indisputable truth, a neutral snapshot of a moment that could never be altered by opinion or emotion or the haze of hindsight. When Crowley had taken that picture of the two of them on the beach that day what he hadn’t seen, could never have held in a memory, was the way Aziraphale wasn’t looking at the phone lens but, instead, was gazing across at him with so much love in his eyes that Crowley had to put the picture down and swallow the emotion in his throat.

To be loved like that, to be the recipient of endless adoration and acceptance and respect, it was everything he had never believed himself to be deserving of.

“I am,” he whispered, smiling at the realisation that he believed it.

“You are what, my dear?” Aziraphale’s voice filtered up from behind the sofa, where he held a bottle up for Crowley to appraise.

“Bloody thirsty.” Crowley laughed, taking the bottle and holding out his other hand for a corkscrew.

***

“Angel, I need to say something and you have to promise not to laugh at me.”

Aziraphale raised both eyebrows as he swallowed a mouthful of wine. White, he’d decided on, leaving Crowley to attempt to make a dent in the stockpile of red he’d acquired. “I’ve got a midday meeting with the void tomorrow so I’m not feeling in particularly high spirits; you’re probably safe.”

Crowley sighed, thunking his wine glass onto the coffee table and turning to look at the angel with an expression so serious that Aziraphale had started laughing before he’d even begun speaking. “I’m worried about Barnaby. The rapture, sky splitting in two, the whole thing. Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Barnaby.” Aziraphale smiled, put a reassuring hand on top of Crowley’s. “All dogs still go to heaven; too much backlash when they proposed reversing the rules.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“I don’t think Gabriel has much to do with the canine population, or Michael for that matter. I can have a word with the Almighty if you like, see if we can take him with us, wherever that is.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” Crowley laughed. It felt good to hear Aziraphale gently mock him. The looming shadow of the next day was weighing heavily on the angel, he knew that, could all but see his mind ticking over any possibility that could save them. He hadn’t asked Aziraphale if he had a plan, was happy to follow the angel in blissful ignorance, wherever he might lead them. It was how he’d lived most of his life, after all, and he hadn’t made too big a cock up of it, in the end.

Was it brave, he wondered, or cowardly, his resignation to whatever the next day held? Was Aziraphale courageous or rooted in denial, to refuse to give up, to believe in survival so absolutely that even imminent extermination wouldn’t stop him trying to find a way out? They were both brave, he decided, in their own ways. Aziraphale the Protector, he thought with a smile, defending him until the very end.

Aziraphale picked up the stack of photographs, looked wistfully at one Crowley had taken of him the night before the R+R Programme. He was silhouetted against the living room windows looking out at the city. He couldn’t see his face in the shot, didn’t need to to remember everything he’d been feeling that night. All the fear and swirling hope that he’d tried to suppress.

“Crowley,” he said, voice raised as he leaned over the arm of the sofa to call out to the demon who was clattering about in the kitchen, wine in hand. “Do you ever think about all the forks in the road, how different things might have been?”

“Yes, angel.” Crowley’s head popped up in the doorway. “Far too often. If we hadn’t stopped Armageddon, if I’d never fallen, even if I’d passed the hell forsaken farce in heaven last month.”

Aziraphale sighed wistfully, remembering the first time he’d told Crowley _no, not yet, I’m afraid_. “If I’d run away you the first time you asked.”

“Or the second. Or the _third_.” He reappeared, carrying two glasses, a pitcher of water, a sugar bowl and two spoons. “Isn’t it supposed to be third time lucky?”

“Well, I suppose fourth time’s the charm for us.” Aziraphale took the pitcher from Crowley’s hands, frowning at it in confusion. 

The demon sat back down on the sofa, neatly arranging the sugar bowl in between the glasses, laying out the twin spoons just so. “Never quite followed the conventional path, did we? Six thousand years of almosts, angel, and we always found our way back together again.”

“Almost as if someone wanted us to.”

They fell silent, two pairs of eyes flicking upwards for just a second. They caught each other and laughed.

“They do say She works in mysterious ways.” Crowley threw one hand up towards the ceiling in frustration, raising his voice. “Have you got a plan then, love? Now would be a bloody great time to let us in on it!”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale warned, closing his eyes to send an apology skyward. Habit of a lifetime, seemed pointless to stop now. Any good favour garnered wasn’t to be sniffed at. “What is all this anyway?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” He grinned, pulling a wrinkled sheet of paper out of his back pocket. He ran a hand over it once, twice to smooth it out on the coffee table.

**Crowley and Aziraphale’s List of Making Up For Lost Time**

  * Take a flight (DONE)
  * Stroke a dog (DONE)
  * Beat Aziraphale at chess (DONE) (Really, Crowley?)
  * Visit a nightclub (DONE)
  * Beat Sinistar _without_ angelic intervention (DONE)
  * Drink absinthe and live to tell the tale



It was wine-stained and frayed along the numerous folds, had taken a battering in Crowley’s pocket over the long months that had passed since they’d sat at the little picnic bench in the Cornish cottage and assembled their to-do list. All the silly, inconsequential things they’d never got around to doing before.

“You kept it with you?” Aziraphale asked, his voice swelling with emotion.

“Of course I did.” Crowley jabbed a finger at the last entry as he pulled a bottle up from the side of the sofa and slammed it down on the table. The green liquid sloshed menacingly, almost glowing inside the glass bottle. “Only one thing left.”

Aziraphale coughed pointedly. “Not sure you ever really beat me at chess, if we’re being-”

“One. Thing. Left.” Crowley bit the words out. “It counted and you know it did.”

“Who am I to burst your bubble this late in the day?” The angel held his hands up to concede, nodded down at the bottle of absinthe that lay in front of them. “Is this really the best idea?”

“Ah!” Crowley held up a finger, as if Aziraphale had missed his masterstroke of genius. “It’s not for tonight. It’s for tomorrow night, or the day after, or next June or November if we want. Something to look forward to if we come back.”

“ _When_ we come back.”

“Yes. When we come back.” Crowley nodded, let Aziraphale kiss him until he was breathless.

***

 _Will this be the last song I ever hear?_ Aziraphale thought, staring into the corner of the room as the swell of strings came to a crescendo and slowly faded out, leading seamlessly into the next song. _Okay, well, will this be the last song I ever hear?_

He had been playing the game for the last six songs, considered each new melody he heard as a resounding triumph of his own will to survive. There were still new things to be discovered, even in the final hours, a testimony to his insistence to heaven that one could never grow tired of life on Earth, could never exhaust all of its treasures.

Crowley’s footsteps came padding back into the living room, heavier than usual on account of the wine. He might not be able to drink his way through their entire stash but he was damned if he wouldn’t give it a good go. Aziraphale sat up, smiled as Crowley extended a hand, unsure where he was taking him but willing to go, wherever it might be.

“One last turn around the dance floor?” Crowley snapped his fingers and they were bathed in diffused light, as if only a single candle flickered in the darkness. 

Aziraphale looked up at him, at the shadows on his face, the long length of his limbs, skinny hips and flaming hair; hell’s own blueprint of temptation. _If only they’d known_ , he laughed to himself, took Crowley’s hand and let him lead him to an empty space that would have to serve as a dance floor once more.

The first time they had danced together it had fallen to Aziraphale to lead, to guide the reluctant demon and show him how it felt to move as one. On that night, the last night on Earth, Crowley pressed a hand to the angel’s lower back and danced as smoothly as if he’d been practising in secret, which, in fact, he had been for quite a few days now. It caught Aziraphale off guard, the way he took the lead, laughed happily as Crowley twirled him gently under his arm and pulled him close for a kiss.

“Quite the improvement.” Aziraphale closed his eyes to revel in the mundanity of it all, the elation of a night time dance with the love of his life. How many moments just like this had he let slip by without delighting in them? Always so worried about the bigger picture, about _fixing_ things, he’d missed a lifetime of fleeting joys just like this one.

“Full of surprises, me.” Crowley scuffed his ankle against the coffee table, hissed under his breath.

“Do you remember Venice?” the angel asked, thinking back to that night when the air was warm and full of magic, of the way Crowley’s eyes had met his across the dance floor.

“Never been so furious that I didn’t know how to dance.” He smiled at the memory, just another one of the thousands of chance encounters that had brought them so close to the precipice. It had taken another two and a half centuries, give or take, until they finally made it into each other’s arms.

“Everyone can dance, even if they don’t know it.”

“Well, one of us has clearly never been to one of hell’s End of the Century parties.”

“I should have.” Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s collarbone, felt the demon’s pulse twitch in his neck as he pulled away. “How did I manage to fly under the radar up there all that time? I spent more time fraternising down here with you than I ever did in heaven.”

“Fraternising.” Crowley repeated the word, looked around at the little home they had built themselves. “Shacked up with a demon and we still haven’t moved on from _fraternising_.”

Aziraphale pushed one hand against his chest in protest. “You know what I mean. Fraternising, pining for six thousand years, spending the rest of our days together, it’s not all that different.”

They fell silent, smiles faltering as the clock above the fireplace chimed over the song they’d been dancing to. Twelve peals. A new day.

“Well,” Aziraphale said finally, “it's been six millennia in the making but the day of reckoning is upon us.”

“It’s been an honour to love you,” Crowley breathed, resting his cheek against Aziraphale’s hair as he took a sip of wine from the glass he held in his other hand. He tasted the blend of blackberry and earth on his tongue, inhaled sharply to give himself anything to think of except how quickly time was slipping through their fingers. It continued its unstoppable march on and on, the only thing in life that could never be bent to hell or heaven’s will. _Two things_ , Crowley corrected himself, _time, and an angel and a demon destined for each other_.

Aziraphale draped one arm around Crowley’s neck, squeezed his eyes closed and let the demon guide him as tears threatened to spill over. He had made it all day, had kept smiling despite everything, but as their final day began it was more than the angel could comprehend. It was impossible, he reasoned, for this to be their last day together. There was so much left to do. So many more midnight dances. So many songs left to hear.

“Drink,” Crowley murmured. “When we want to cry, we drink instead.”

He guided his glass to Aziraphale’s lips, tipped a little too violently and sent scarlet droplets cascading to the floor. Without missing a beat both angel and demon nodded down to miracle away the stain.

“Too many frivolous miracles. May the Almighty strike us down.”

“It’s a few hours too early for that, isn’t it?” Crowley laughed, and then he was crying too.

They danced in the darkness, forehead to forehead, letting the rise and fall of the song dictate their rhythm. It was steady, sombre when it needed to be, soaring when the sadness was almost too much to bear. Aziraphale closed his eyes, stretched up to meet Crowley in a kiss, tasted salt on his lips and imagined they were back by the sea, on the cliffs high above the swell of the waves crashing against the rocks. They were peering into the unknown, even then. They always had been, when he thought back to it.

“You have been the greatest adventure of my lifetime.” Aziraphale took the wine glass from Crowley’s hand, leaned down to rest it on the coffee table and held the demon’s hand over his heart.

Crowley followed the angel’s lead, pressed Aziraphale’s palm to his own chest. He felt Aziraphale’s heartbeat against his hand, a life pulsing persistently against his skin. _What a life_ , he thought, _what a life it’s been_.

As Aziraphale moved to the rhythm of Crowley’s heartbeat he thought of all that lay within it, all he had seen it bring to life in the garden that day. His own beat just as surely but creation ran through the demon’s blood. Was there anything in his own heart, he wondered, that could pull existence into being?

“Crowley?” He asked, unsure what the question was going to be until the words came tumbling out. “What does it feel like, creation?”

Crowley thought for a moment, realised he’d never had to articulate it before. It just _was_. It was something so deeply part of his soul that, for a moment, he couldn’t find the words. “It’s like falling into the deepest sleep, the sort of sleep where you could swear your dreams are real, a space you can walk through where you can shape everything that’s in your mind, and in your heart. You can pull it free, whatever you’ve been hiding, make it real. It’s…infinite, everything bigger than we can imagine. It’s bringing the stars down from heaven so we could dance among them.” And he could have, if he’d wanted to, but being together in their home was enough. It was bigger than the stars.

“A quiet life,” the angel whispered, “that’s what we’ll build after this, after the end.”

Crowley breathed in, felt the tremor in his throat as he leaned into the lie. “Breakfast in bed every morning. Eggs just the way you like them.”

“A house full of dogs. They’ll love you almost as much as I do.”

“I’ll help you when you get stuck on the crossword. I’ll learn how to make sushi. You’ll get sick of it.”

“Never.” Aziraphale laughed, shaking his head at the notion.

“Walks down by the sea after lunch. Just us, the waves, and the sky.”

“We’ll breathe easy. Nothing left to run from.”

The song came to its tragic end, chords playing out the rhythm of a heart that beat, beat, beat until, suddenly, it didn’t. Then there was only the sound of their breath, inhaling and exhaling in harmony, and Aziraphale looking up at him, eyes shining, lips bee stung and soft. There was desperation in his face, disbelief that Crowley knew was fear masquerading under a different name.

“I should have gone with you.” Aziraphale buckled against him, and all Crowley could do was hold him as all the sorrow he’d spent the day swallowing burst free. “That day in the bandstand. I should have said yes. We could have been lightyears away from this place by now. We wouldn’t have to say goodbye. I did this to us.”

“Look at me.” Crowley held the angel’s face in his hands, kissed his forehead, his cheek and, finally, his lips. “Aziraphale, look at me. We are not saying goodbye. It’s never goodbye, not with us. If we have to walk through every world the Almighty has created until we find each other, even if it takes eternity, that’s what we'll do. I am not giving you up, not ever, not for anything.”

***

 _Why did I chase paradise for so long?_ Aziraphale wondered, looking into Crowley’s eyes in the flickering candlelight as they lay, nose to nose, underneath a soft blanket. _I already had it. I always did._ He ran one hand slowly across the demon’s skin, felt every angle and curve of him, locked them all away in his mind for safekeeping.

He leaned close to Crowley’s ear, let his lips come to rest against the space between his jaw and neck. “You are still, after all this time, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. In the beginning we stood there in _Eden_ , for heaven’s sake, and, still, all I could see was you.”

“I should have stayed away from you. Everything bad that’s ever happened to you has been because of me.”

Aziraphale laughed quietly. “All the good things have been because of you too.”

“Selfish, really. I saw you, an angel, in my garden. You were everything I could have been. I hated you on sight. And then, somehow, by the time the rain fell I loved you. I went there to destroy you. When it came to it though…" He trailed off, laughing at his own absolute predictability. “I just wanted a chat really, didn’t I? Couldn’t destroy you after that.”

A heartbeat later he nudged Aziraphale’s nose with his own in the dark. "You were the first thing that had spoken to me in years. Really spoken to me, I mean, as if I was there.”

Aziraphale exhaled, and a nervous chuckle came with it. "Imagine if I was in any way adequate at my job. Wouldn’t have had to worry about the rapture, that’s for sure, I’d have been stamped out six thousand years ago.”

“Funny old world, isn’t it?” Crowley slid one hand up against his back, held him close until it felt as though their hearts pounded with a single beat, surging faster with every moment that took them closer to the brink. “And now we’re here, one last adventure into the unknown.”

“Now we’re here.” A second passed, and then another, and then one last release of the words Aziraphale had held quietly in his heart. “Crowley, I thought I could let us go, that I could accept whatever the rapture meant. I can’t. I can’t let this happen to us, not after everything we’ve done to get here. I said I would come up with a plan, that I would fix things, that I would always protect you. I won’t give up, I swear to you.”

The demon silenced him with a kiss, slow and sweet and aching. “You’ve spent all these years trying to make a perfect place for us, a better world. This is the world we have. It brought us together, it was always enough. Rest now, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded against him, felt Crowley’s eyelashes flutter on his shoulder as he closed his eyes. As a demon slipped gently into one last dream, an angel opened his eyes in the darkness and smiled, knowing he would never rest, not where there was still a chance. And there was always a chance, wasn’t there, for a better world?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rapture is HERE. Well, almost. The last update is coming tomorrow :D. (Exactly two months since I posted chapter one, how cyclical.)
> 
> (In case anyone is curious) In my head the songs they dance to are:
> 
> Before the clock strikes midnight: Making Love Out of Nothing At All - Air Supply (massive shoutout to the lovely Reddit user who suggested this as an Ineffable Husbands song!)  
> After the clock strikes midnight: Videotape - Radiohead
> 
> Anyway - see you all tomorrow, thank you for being the best <3


	48. Old Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to read the notes section if you want to know what's coming up :)

******August 2020 (Three hours until the rapture). A.Z. Fell and Co., London.**

On the morning of the rapture, the great ascension that was to be heaven’s next move in their eternal chess game against hell, Crowley and Aziraphale sat on the floor of the bookshop with their legs stretched out in front of them, nursing their favourite drinks in peaceful silence.

“Honestly, Crowley.” Aziraphale glanced sharply at the wine glass in Crowley’s hand, then down at the half empty bottle by his side. “It’s nine in the morning. Knocking back wine like…”

“Like there’s no tomorrow? Hilarious, angel, tell us another one.”

The angel smiled sheepishly, turned his attention back to the mug of cocoa he was holding. The hot chocolate didn’t feel particularly time or weather appropriate but, well, there wasn’t much time left and he didn’t intend to squander it on subpar beverages.

“You could have been up there, looking down on all of this. Surviving.”

“Yes, and you could have been down there, Crowley, looking up.” Aziraphale rested a hand on Crowley’s thigh, and the demon’s chosen name had never sounded so sweet, so filled with affection. “We could never have survived apart, we only work when we’re together.”

“We barely work, even then.” Crowley laughed. “The worst celestial emissaries there ever were. Lost the Antichrist, foiled Armageddon, ran away together.”

Aziraphale swallowed a mouthful of cocoa, exhaled happily as the liquid warmed him from the inside out. It was a small comfort but he was grateful, all the same. “Speaking of the Antichrist, where is Adam Young when you need him? He would have been a godsend today.”

“Just the two of us today, I’m afraid.”

“We go out the way we came in, two lost souls looking for a home.”

Aziraphale set his mug down on the floor between his thighs as he continued talking, listing all the other ways in which they’d disappointed their respective head offices. It was a long list, gave Crowley plenty of time to stare down at the faint lip print Aziraphale’s mouth had left on the rim of the mug. He smiled ruefully, remembered how it had felt to stand in the shop on that night all those months ago and hold it in his hands, touch the imprint of Aziraphale’s lip with his fingers and take the first step forward into everything that had led them to that day.

They had been so full of hope then, in those heady weeks of sending each other on a treasure hunt around London that had culminated in the park. Reunited, together, finally. Back in the shop, Crowley dug his teeth into his bottom lip to give himself something else to focus on, to root himself in the present before he could drift too far into the past.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale nudged him with his elbow, brow furrowed in irritation. “Are you even listening to me?”

He tore his gaze away from the cup, gave Aziraphale a wink before taking a swig of wine. It was his second glass. It turned out wine for breakfast did wonders to pacify a racing heart. “Thinking about your lips, sorry.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale nodded tightly, pink blooming in his cheeks. “Well, that’s all right then.”

He clambered to his feet, held out a hand to help pull Crowley up behind him. They stood there, in the doorway of the shop, arms wrapped around each other’s waists as they watched London bustle to life outside.

“They have no idea, do they? No time to say goodbye,” Crowley mused sadly.

“I’m not sure they need to say goodbye.” Aziraphale thought back to the early years in heaven, what he had learned about the great plans for the glorious rapture. It had felt so out of reach, something distant on the horizon, millennia in the future. He would see every inch of the globe by that point, he had thought, would lead humanity away from sin. He would make heaven, and Gabriel, so very proud by the time the rapture came, that faraway date in the future. He knew it. “The rapture arrives, those heaven deems worthy ascend and then, I believe, the world continues on as if they were never in it. The tribulation. A test, if you will, before the end. The real end.”

“They don’t even know?” Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow. “The world ticks on as if it hasn’t just lost half of its population?”

“ _Half?_ That’s generous. No, I think the actual number will be quite a bit smaller than that, Crowley. Heaven is pretty stringent with the entry criteria these days. Overcrowding, remember? Anyway.” He pursed his lips. “I’m sure Gabriel has changed the metaphorical goal posts yet again. He’ll do away with the tribulation next, jump straight into the final battle between heaven and hell if it would win him a bit of favour with the masses.”

“You never know, Satan might run into dear old Gabe and tear him apart, if we’re lucky.” Crowley grinned, allowing himself the fantasy that the archangel would ever depart heaven to hedge his bets on the battlefield.

“Not that we would know anything about it. No, we’ll be long gone by then. Somewhere out there, or nowhere…” Aziraphale trailed off, gesturing vaguely into the ether before shrugging. “Anywhere, really, I’m not particularly fussy.”

“There are a million other worlds out there, angel, a million other versions of us. At least. Star-crossed in every galaxy. Human, ethereal, occult. Maybe there’s even a world where you’re the demon and I’m the angel. Imagine that, eh?”

Aziraphale fussed with his jacket, straightening his collar before he turned to Crowley, smiling. “Well, I would find that very hard to believe.”

“It’s a good dream though, isn’t it? Even if that’s all it is.”

Crowley felt fingers slip through his own, closed his eyes to bask in the tenderness of Aziraphale’s thumb running slowly across his palm. It was an absent-minded gesture, something the angel did when his mind was elsewhere, a tiny movement to keep him tethered to the present.

“Do you think they love each other in every universe, on every star?” the angel asked finally. “Do you think they find their way to each other, wherever they are?”

“Oh, I’m sure they do, angel, even if it takes them a little while. Took us six thousand years to face up to it, didn’t it? Maybe some of them don’t wait so long.”

“If I could meet them, if I could gather them together and tell them one thing I’ve learned…” Aziraphale looked down, sniffed sharply. “I’d tell them not to wait when they find the thing they love. We have less time than we think, all of us. Immortality made me complacent. I thought I had all the time in the world. I moved so _lazily_. No idea of the shadow behind me. I thought I could take my time, feel out every outcome before I committed to something new. And now we’ll be gone in two and a half hours. A _bloody_ …grain of sand in an hourglass. ”

Crowley quietly took the mug out of his hand, placed it next to his empty wineglass on the edge of a bookshelf near the door. He wrapped his arms around the angel’s shoulders, resting his chin on top of his head as he murmured words of comfort. “Nothing is ever truly gone, angel. Look at the stars. Dead for centuries, some them, and their light hasn’t even decorated our night sky yet. There’s always something that endures; an echo, or a story.”

***

One last walk through the city they had called home. They walked slowly, hand in hand, arms gently swinging between them like a pendulum, Aziraphale’s sword strapped to his back as if it was a perfectly ordinary occurrence. If the humans could see it they didn’t react, eyes glancing over the odd couple, one of them carrying a sword like it was an extension of his body. _So many sights_ , Aziraphale thought, marvelling at how many beautiful buildings he had walked past day after day, head down, too busy to give them a moment of appreciation.

The National Gallery rose up beside them, tourists milling around Trafalgar Square as if they had all the time in the world. Couples sat side by side at the fountain while children clambered up to the base of the bronze lion statues. Aziraphale looked up at them, smiled at the memory of a night spent coaxing Crowley down from one of their backs. There was something of them woven into every part of the city’s sprawling patchwork quilt. They had left their mark on this place, at least.

As they passed through the entrance of the park, grey stepping away to let green take over, Crowley focused on nothing other than the feeling of Aziraphale’s presence next to him. He soaked up the way the angel’s fingers fitted so perfectly together with his, the way their forearms brushed against each other as they walked, acutely aware of every way their bodies touched and moved as one. Two halves of a whole, coming together to form something infinitely greater than the sum of its parts.

Aziraphale stopped suddenly, pulling Crowley to the edge of the path and taking the demon’s other hand in his. “I love you.”

It hadn’t been a discussion, where to spend their final moments, both knew it only made sense to end where it had all started, in the first place they had found the courage to say those three simple words that still held all the magic they ever had.

“And I love you, angel, all the way to the end.” He tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s hands, as if holding onto each other would somehow keep them together through whatever might come next, leaned down into a lingering kiss, slow enough that it felt like a challenge to whoever might be watching, heavenly or damned. _Go on_ , he thought, _try and tear us apart, just try._

They walked on to the duck pond, down the gentle path towards the water that they’d trodden untold times over the centuries. It had been the backdrop of so many moments in their shared history; of hissed arguments and joyful reunions after decades apart, of carefully-laid plans and long looks goodbye. If the bookshop was their night time secret, the duck pond was their day time escape, hiding in plain sight. The moon and the sun, lighting their path.

“I brought oats,” Aziraphale announced, digging a bag of porridge oats out of his trouser pocket as if it was any other Saturday, their plans extending to nothing more stressful than hurling handfuls of food at the ducks and bickering about who the birds liked more.

Crowley laughed, grabbing a fistful and tossing them into the water. “Of course you did.”

He heard footsteps behind them, turned to look over his shoulder as Aziraphale gleefully treated the ducks to one last treat. Two clean cut men in pristine suits sat behind them, one pretending to read the newspaper while the other passed him a slim brown envelope. The men looked up in tandem, narrowed eyes relaxing when they saw it was Crowley looking back at them. One of them raised a hand in greeting as if he’d spotted an old friend in the distance. Crowley smiled, gave them both a nod, and then turned his attention back to the pond.

It was one of life’s simplest pleasures, Aziraphale had always thought, a walk through the park to stop and feed the ducks. They were sweet things, chattering away amongst themselves, feet paddling furiously beneath the surface as they dashed for a mouthful of food. He watched a particularly rotund drake make its way in for a second helping, felt his jaw drop open in horror as it plunged suddenly below the surface as if an invisible hand had pushed it from above.

He grabbed for Crowley’s hand, heard his own voice cry out in fear. “It’s starting! Crowley, it’s here!”

The duck reappeared then, quacking unhappily for a moment until he hoovered up a beakful of oats and forgot quite what he’d been so annoyed about. Next to him, Aziraphale could hear the demon dissolve into hushed laughter.

“Oh, for _heaven’s_ sake, my dear. Today, _really_?” He gave Crowley a withering look, rolled his eyes up to the sky and threw an extra handful of oats in the soggy duck’s direction.

“One last spot of mischief for the road, eh?” Crowley bit his lip, tried to keep a straight face as the angel glowered next to him. 

 _Is hell watching?_ Crowley wondered, letting his thoughts stray. Were they watching them that very second, waiting for the moment their little stain was wiped clean from the Earth? Did heaven still have eyes on Aziraphale, or had they lost him the day he turned his back on them? Would anyone be watching, or would the angel and his fallen lover slip away as easily as they had come? Would Raphael, sweet Raphael who had all but raised him, would they ever know how his final moments unfolded? Would they think about him, in the time afterwards, the only other being who had ever loved him?

Next to him, Aziraphale’s thoughts had also turned to the heavens, to how he had felt on the day he left heaven for Earth, for Eden. It had been the single most significant day of existence at that point. The only significant day, really. He had been so proud. To guard humanity against the forces of evil, to wield his sword and meet his adversary in combat. It was to be, he had thought, the most important role of his life. Principality Aziraphale the Protector, he had called himself in the safe freedom of his mind. He would be brave, quick-thinking, ready to thwart whatever wiles the hell-sent demon could dream up in his nightmarish mind. What a contrast he would be to Aziraphale the Slow, Aziraphale the Weak. He would finally become what he was destined to be.

Aziraphale the Slow. Standing in front of the duck pond he chuckled to himself, remembering the nickname Gabriel had given him, shortly before the archangel cuffed him on the arm and told him to lighten up. _Well, Gabriel,_ he thought to himself, _Aziraphale the Slow is about to save the world, right on time._

Crowley had given him the idea, of course, without even realising it. He had been a near constant source of inspiration for six thousand years, why would that change now? The demon had spent so many long years saving him, stepping in at the final moment, drawing untold strength when they needed to survive, now it was his turn.

“What do you want, angel?” Crowley had asked him the night before, as they lay together in bed after sharing one final dance, planning what to do with their final hours. “Lunch at the Ritz? Drink all the tea in China? A last minute jolly around the world?”

“You asked me that once before. My answer hasn’t changed, it never will. Just you, that’s all I want.”

Later that night as Crowley had fallen asleep next to him, the cogs in Aziraphale’s mind had slowly ticked to life. It was a risk, daring to have hope, but then when had anything that mattered in his life not been?

“Sort of thought something might have happened by now.” Crowley’s voice, tinged with boredom, pulled him back to the present. The demon looked down at his watch and then frowned up at the sky. “Shouldn’t there be thunder and lightning, biblical rain, the sudden reappearance of the kraken? _Something_?”

Aziraphale slapped his chest, tutting. “Don’t give them ideas.”

“More waiting around than I thought there’d be.” Crowley nodded over to the ice cream stall that was peeking temptingly out from a bend in the path. “Time for an ice cream?”

He heard a sound next to him that was remarkably close to the sort of sound Aziraphale made when he tried and failed to unscrew the sticky lid of a jam jar, turned to find the angel standing there with his eyes screwed closed, fists clenched dramatically in front of him.

“Angel?” he asked lightly. “Are you…being raptured?”

“No,” Aziraphale hissed, unscrewing one eye to glare at him. “I’m…give me a minute, I’m fixing things.”

Crowley nodded slowly, struggling to keep his eyebrows in a neutral position lest they rise swiftly to the heights of sarcasm and earn him another glare. “I’ll go and get us some doomsday ice creams, shall I? Quarter of an hour to go, still time for a 99.”

Aziraphale looked down at his hands as if they had failed a test they didn’t know they were taking. He flexed his fingers, aghast, before turning to Crowley with a look of impossible frustration on his face. “Stop being so… _complacen_ t, Crowley, for crying out loud. We have to do something!”

“I am doing something, I’m going to get an ice cream so I can enjoy one last Mr Whippy with my eternal soulmate. There are worse ways to go out, angel. What are you in the mood for, strawberry split or a Cornetto?”

“This is…this is just like Tadfield all over again.” Aziraphale grabbed for the cuff of his jacket, pulled him back. “Stop just…accepting everything. This is _not_ the time for ice cream.”

“I don’t want to repeat the well-loved adage _we are fucked_ but we _are_ fucked.” He rolled his eyes as Aziraphale unbuckled his makeshift sword sheath and pulled the blade free. “Oh, oh I see, time for the old _wield my weapon in Crowley’s face until he panics us into another realm_ routine. That came out wrong. But my point still stands.”

“You did it before, Crowley, you can do it again.”

“That’s not how it works, Aziraphale. What I did that day, it’s not infinite. It’s not an escape. All I did then was buy us a few minutes.” His voice softened as he took Aziraphale’s hand, locking their fingers together in an easy, practised motion. “If I thought there was anything I could do to stop this, I would have done it on the day we left heaven. I’m not being complacent, I’m being realistic. I’m tired, angel, I am so tired of running. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep trying and trying and failing every single time. I tried to get back into heaven and now we’re both doomed. I don’t want to spend my final moments with you failing us again. Now, do you want a strawberry split or a Cornetto?”

“Strawberry split,” Aziraphale mumbled, watching mournfully as Crowley walked away from him.

He turned away, leaned his sword against the railings and stared down into the murky water of the duck pond. He felt numb, the pulse-pounding adrenaline he had conjured moments before streaking its way through his limbs and rendering them soft and useless. It hadn’t worked. He had tried twice and it hadn’t worked. Creation. Crowley had told him how it felt. He knew what he needed to do. He had closed his eyes, he had flung the doors of his heart open and set what hid there free. The perfect world. He had seen it all. No evil, no darkness, no unadulterated hate for the sake of hate. There would be no war, no heaven, no hell. There would be only love and gentleness and creativity free to bloom wherever it saw fit. It would be paradise, for all of humanity, and they would be safe there. He had seen it all, had _seen_ it before his eyes. So why when he opened them were they still standing in St James’s Park, Crowley talking about ice cream, of all things?

Why hadn’t it worked, the first time or the second? He had done everything he was supposed to do. It was his plan, the only one he had. Make a perfect world. It could be done, he knew it could. The Almighty had done it a million times over. Gabriel had done it, so he’d heard, best to take that with a pinch of salt though. There were archangels who had created worlds, seraphim who had dreamed up entire galaxies, Raphael had made near enough every star in the sky, for heaven’s sake. All he needed was one. However tiny. One secret world the size of London would do. He didn’t need to travel, would forgo nipping across the Channel for crepes if that was the sacrifice he had to make.

 _I must have missed something_ , he thought, rolling his shoulders back and closing his eyes as he readied his mind for another attempt. Third time’s the charm. He emptied his mind, quieted the racing of his heart, thought only of a secret space they could exist in, free from every evil, every judgement. He felt his nails tear into his palms, wondered if the dampness he felt in the half moon crescents of his nails was blood or sweat. He dreamed of everything they would need, imagined it spiralling up around them now, in that moment, the old broken world washed away like letters written in sand.

Then Crowley was standing next to him, depositing an ice cream into his hand and kissing him, the taste of vanilla on his lips. “Right, well, they were out of strawberry splits so a Cornetto will have to do. Mint, obviously, I’m not a monster.”

“Crowley, I-” Aziraphale stopped suddenly as the ground rumbled slowly under their feet, as if something long buried was beginning to wake up after a very long wait. It was time.

The demon reached for him then, all traces of gentle teasing and last minute sarcasm evaporating, ice cream inelegantly tossed to the floor. There was only space in his mind for Aziraphale, to be as close to him as possible, to shut the rest of the world out.

“I couldn’t do it, Crowley,” the angel wept, gripping onto his shoulders, thumbs pressed to his collarbone. “I tried to take us somewhere. I tried to make something, to create what we always wanted.”

Crowley smiled at him, one hand tangling in his hair. There was sadness in his eyes, and happiness, a thousand memories gathered there all at once. “I lived an eternity with you, angel, I had everything I always wanted.”

“Six thousand years, wasted. After everything, we only had a year.”

Crowley shook his head, pressed a quick kiss to the angel’s lips, and then another. “We didn’t waste a second. It all happened exactly as it was supposed to. It led us here, didn’t it? Look at everything we did, we saved the world.”

Another rumble sounded, closer this time, and then a cracking sound filled the air as if something nearby had split clean down the middle. They turned in tandem to find a chasm on the edge of the park, rock and earth tossed into the air and landing in the centre of the busy road. Cars, pedestrians, cyclists, they all neatly navigated past the debris and continued on with their journey as calmly as if they were stepping over a discarded takeaway box.

Then the chasm began to vomit fire, flames of red and orange licked out across the ground and began to grow, twisting and hissing until it was a swelling wall of fury, rising up in search of who it had been sent to find.

“Not this time, though.”

“No.” He looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, felt the same lurch in his heart that he’d felt the very first time. “No, not this time.”

Aziraphale looked down at their clasped hands, brought his forehead to rest against Crowley’s chin, whispering a single word. “Hellfire.”

“That’s not hellfire.” Crowley shook his head, brought his arms up around Aziraphale’s back. “It’s heavenly. It’s here to cleanse.”

“To burn away sin.” Aziraphale laughed, despite himself, watched the humans walk casually over the fiery threshold and into the park as if there was nothing there. _It’s not here for them_ , he realised with relief, a heartbeat before white hot dread began to drip over him. _It’s here for us_.

And then the fire began to move as fluidly as if it was holy water, creeping closer as the minutes ticked into seconds.

Crowley didn’t release his wings very often. The last time, in fact, had been two years ago when he had pulled Aziraphale and Adam somewhere else for that brief moment. When heaven’s cleansing fire began its painstaking crawl towards them, to put an end to their rebellion and every sin they stood for, he saw the fear in Aziraphale’s eyes and did the only thing he could think to do, he unfurled his wings and wrapped them around the angel. It would do nothing when the moment came, he knew that, but for a minute, at least, they were safe.

“Crowley,” the angel breathed, eyes closing as he let his own wings spring up and pull them closer together. “This can’t be happening. This can’t be…”

“Eden,” Crowley said, placing gentle hands on either side of Aziraphale’s face and holding him still. “Angel, look at me. What came after Eden?”

“You know what came after, you were there.”

The demon raised his voice and it soared over the sound of chaos behind them. “Tell me. What came after?”

“The ark. The flood.”

“And then?”

“Abraham. You were particularly meddlesome, if I remember.”

“Just wanted some attention, in my defence.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, set free the tiniest smile. “Then Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“Ah, who were the meddlesome ones then?”

“Well, it wasn’t me, was it? I stayed out of the entire mess as you well know. Pillars of salt, honestly.”

“Could have done with some chips that day, couldn’t we? Saul’s coronation then, wasn’t it? God, you were a nightmare that day.”

“You’re forgetting Egypt. The plagues.”

And for a moment they were no longer in St James’s Park with heavenly fire rushing up to burn them out of existence, they were diving back into six thousand years of near misses, blazing rows, moonlit promises and those few nights when they had almost, _almost_ given in. They were drinking champagne on the back of a yacht in St Tropez, swapping office gossip in the Moulin Rouge in Paris. They were shoulder to shoulder in the Bentley at a drive-in movie, politely ignoring the writhing teenage couples in every other car, they hid behind masks at Venice’s Carnevale, sat in a damp little cave in Bulgaria and scribbled pictures on the walls to keep themselves entertained. They were sitting on the edge of Brighton pier, cone of chips passed between them, lay entwined in sweaty sheets in that little Moroccan guesthouse, and a thousand other moments that had led them there, together, at the end of everything.

Crowley looked behind him, saw the fire reaching the edge of the pond, saw the sky split in two above them as heavenly light poured down. He kissed Aziraphale, as slowly and easily as if they had all the time in the world and when he felt the heat of the fire as it roared ever closer, he kissed him for just a little bit longer. “You can do it. You have everything you need.”

The angel peered over Crowley’s shoulder, shrank back as he saw the fire approach. “I can’t. I can’t do it. I tried, Crowley, I failed every time.”

Crowley guided his face away so they were looking into each other’s eyes agin, his words hurried and insistent. “What did we say yesterday? Fourth time’s the charm with us. It doesn’t need to be perfect. Absolute perfection, sounds a lot like heaven’s idea of paradise, doesn’t it? What do we need perfection for? We’ve always been wonderfully, wildly wrong. Don’t make it perfect, make it ours. I’ll meet you there, angel. I love you.”

Aziraphale reached for him one last time, tasted salty air on the demon’s tongue, the sweetest wine, fire smoke and snowflakes and longing and love and lifetime after lifetime of memories. _Please_. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes closed, felt the heat grow closer, clutched Crowley’s hands tighter. _Please don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt them. Don’t let all of this have been for nothing._

In his final moments, as the rapture began and heaven smiled down on humanity, Aziraphale whispered his final words to the demon in his arms, thought of everything they had ever wanted for their future, everything they had built there in the present, everything he could have done differently in the past. It was all there, his life, and he pulled at every part he wanted in his last moments, all the parts he had loved the most: snake eyes and a pair of arms wrapped around his waist as he slept; waking up to find himself already home; humanity, with all of their funny little quirks he was so fond of; watching the joy in Crowley’s face as he had played with the only puppy who had never feared him; his books, his precious books; his shop, with its comfortable sofas and dusty windows; the race of his heart as the Bentley flew down Oxford Street, pretending he hated it, secretly loving the rebellion, loving that it was something that had been theirs. He took hold of it all, everything that had ever mattered, and pulled it into his heart, tugging it all free, great roots coming loose as he held them close, locking them away like a secret.

An angel and a demon clung to each other by the duck pond in St James’s Park when their world ended. As the wall of rapturous fire came upon them, a great beast sent to cleanse Earth of everything that didn’t belong, the last thing Crowley heard was Aziraphale telling him he would love him for eternity, saw his own face reflected in the angel’s eyes, and then everything was stardust and silence.

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Aziraphale opened his eyes and sucked in one shuddering breath, as if coming up for air after rising up through the depths of the deepest ocean. Around him, he found only darkness stretching out into infinity. He lowered one foot and then the other, looked down to find himself standing on nothing at all. There was a tiny sound in the distance like the ringing of a bell. And then a light, a tiny flicker that could only grow.

“Crowley?” he whispered into the emptiness, reached out a hand to find nothing there but a memory. “I’ll find you.”

In the nowhere of _after_ , an angel smiled. It was time to begin.

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**August 2020. The Garden, London (Somewhere).**

“Sorry, mate,” Crowley hissed, holding his hands up in apology as he ducked out of the man’s path. _Bloody garden_. People stopping dead in the street to take a selfie in front of it like they’d never seen a rose bush before. He glared across at the sprawling greenery that had caused such a stir when it had bloomed to life, seemingly miraculously, a week ago. The papers had had a field day with it, tourists flocking from miles away to witness its beauty. Species never before seen on the planet, according to horticulturalists. _Yes, yes_ , Crowley thought, _it’s all very lovely but some of us have had a very weird day and would like, no, need to get somewhere with an alcohol license without any hold ups._

The Garden. He looked up at the slick minimalist sign that hung above the bar, was sure it hadn’t been called that when he'd walked past it that morning. He shook the thought away, it wasn’t anywhere near the strangest thing that had happened that day. He went inside, ordered a half pint of whatever was on tap, and sat down to try and forget.

“Sir.” Crowley had barely finished his first drink when the barmaid leaned across the table to set a glass down in front of him. The liquid inside was green. The sort of green that had never, not once, occurred naturally. “Appletini. From the gentleman at the bar.”

At the _bar_? Crowley frowned at the delicate martini glass. He was not an appletini drinker. Barely liked apples at the best of times. Sour things. He was also not, by any stretch of the imagination, the sort of person who had drinks sent to him by mysterious admirers in overpriced cocktail bars. He was sure he’d seen a horror film that had started in precisely this manner but he wasn’t in any position to turn his nose up at a free drink, and it had been a very long, odd day. He took a sip, felt the fruity tang on his tongue. _Could be worse_ , he conceded.

Meanwhile, a blond-haired bookseller sat at the bar cradling a glass of wine and wondering what in the world was possessing him that day. He was behaving ridiculously. _What am I doing, sending a drink to a stranger like some sort of…rapscallion?_  Zira Fell was not the sort of person who sent drinks to strangers, however much they pulled at his periphery. He had watched him, the redhead with the sad eyes, as he flung himself dramatically into an empty seat and nursed the same half a pint for almost an hour. He had the hunched shoulders of loneliness incarnate, a defensive posture meant to lock the world out before it had a chance to peer inside. Zira smiled ruefully, perhaps that had been what caught his attention. After all, he knew the echoing darkness of loneliness all too well, recognised a kindred spirit in the crowd.

What was the etiquette in these situations, Crowley wondered? Send a drink back in return (at these prices? Not a chance, pal, sorry), write his number on a bar mat and paper aeroplane it over to the bar on the off chance his soulmate might reach up and pluck it out of the air? He turned to glance across at the bar. It was packed full of people. _Excellent_ , he thought, _narrows it down_.

He took another sip of the drink, and then another. One more look and, oh, somebody was glancing back. They looked away, embarrassed, then looked back again and smiled. Crowley raised his glass to cheers him and the mystery admirer, oh _god,_ he was getting up and coming over. _Leave me alone_ , he pleaded silently, _don’t make it weird, don’t be weird, please. I’ve had enough of weird for one day._

“Did it hurt?” The voice that came was almost serious, betrayed by an audible smile, words soft around the edges. “When you fell from heaven?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, momentary intrigue wilting away as quickly as it had bloomed. “Has that line, in the history of existence, ever worked on anybody?”

He heard a little cough of embarrassment, and then, “I, er, first time trying it out, if I’m honest. You tell me. Been a bit of a day, thought I’d try something new.”

Crowley looked at him then, at the white blond hair curling at the tips, cream jumper and practical shoes. He was holding a very sensible glass of wine, unoccupied hand fidgeting at his side, the polar opposite of somebody who spent their Saturday nights sending cocktails to strangers. _To hell with it_ , he thought. “Take a seat.”

The seconds that ticked by as they politely stared into the depths of their drinks felt a lot like torture. When it was almost too much to bear, Crowley sighed to break the silence. “Anthony, by the way, Anthony Crowley. Just call me Crowley, don’t usually bother with the whole first name thing.”

“Crowley,” the bookseller repeated, turning the word over in his mouth until he decided he liked the taste of it. He extended a neatly manicured hand. “Zira.”

“Unusual.” Crowley took his hand, gave it a firm shake. Unusual was one word for it, for both the name and the entire situation.

Zira raised an eyebrow, slid his glass across the table as he leaned forward, elbows pressed to the dark wood as he dropped his voice conspiratorially. “Mmm, that’s not the half of it.”

“Oh?”

He shook his head, paused to take a sip of wine and narrowed his eyes. It was a test, of sorts. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think it’s been an _unusual_ day all round. Something in the air.” Crowley laughed, relaxed lower in his chair as he let Zira’s chatter wash over him, his words tumbling out in one great breath as if they were old friends reunited after far too much time apart.

By the time the sky grew dark two humans sat thigh to thigh, hands curved around damp glasses as they swapped stories about that odd moment at midday when everything had gone dark for just a moment and they’d come to with the unsettling feeling that something had shifted, as if the world’s axis had been knocked ever so slightly off kilter.

Zira gestured down to their empty drinks, nodded briskly towards the bar. “Tempt you to one more?”

Crowley looked across at him, felt something stir to life in his chest, an unmistakeable flicker of familiarity that he couldn’t quite place. Not yet, at least, but there was still time. Plenty of it, in fact. He bit his lip, chuckled at the madness of it all. “Temptation accomplished. Go on then.”

As a bookseller and a dog walker smiled at each other amid the bustle of the city continuing around them as it always had, it felt very much like the start of something which would begin, as these things so often do, in a garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** Part II, Ahoy! ***
> 
> Well, I hope you liked Part I!
> 
> Part II is publishing here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20312470
> 
> A short story about what happened in Morocco is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20528282/chapters/48723452
> 
> A short story about our pal Raphael is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20401738/chapters/48391339
> 
> That said, Part I can totally be read as a standalone so if you want to leave things here I completely get it and thank you for reading this far <3\. Part II will be lighter than Part I. At first, anyway :).
> 
> I also have a note on my phone I made at 1am the other week that says ‘just Azi eating a shit load of pears’ so, I guess that will feature somewhere.
> 
> *** Short Stories on the Horizon ***
> 
> As well as Part II I have a bunch of short stories to work my way through, mostly set at various points throughout history with a couple set during Part I. I’ll probably group these together as Part III of this series, to publish alongside Part II. The first batch I have planned are:
> 
> \- The Quiet Rebellion of Raphael Morningstar (A short story from Raphael’s POV of Aziraphale and Crowley’s journey from creation up to the rapture)  
> \- Antici…Pation (AKA That Time Crowley Discovered Rocky Horror)  
> \- I Feel Celestial (AKA That Time an Angel and a Demon Accidentally Crashed a Yacht Party in St Tropez. Title pinched from Shampain by Marina and the Diamonds because, obviously)  
> \- The Master (AKA That Time an Angel and a Demon Sat for Da Vinci)  
> \- Tainted Love (AKA That Time Crowley Went Full Synth Nymph in the 80s)  
> \- Maybe This Time (AKA Crowley Thinks He’s Being Subtle by Dragging Aziraphale to the Moulin Rouge. Aziraphale is WEARY of Crowley’s Increasingly Provocative Locations for Clandestine Meetings)  
> \- My Kind’s Your Kind (AKA That Time an Angel and a Demon Pined at a Masked Ball)  
> \- A Truth Universally Acknowledged (AKA Crowley Purposely Meddles in Regency High Society. Aziraphale Accidentally Makes it Worse)  
> \- A Case of You (AKA That Time What Happened in Morocco Completely and Utterly Failed to Stay in Morocco)  
> \- An Angel and a Demon do the Icelandic Ring Road (AKA I hope you like hearing about ROCKS)  
> \- At the Drive-In (AKA…I don’t have a smart arse working title for this, they just had a secret meeting at a drive-in movie in the 50s)
> 
> *** Self-Indulgent Author Notes of Gratitude For You All ***
> 
> Okay. Self-indulgence incoming, please forgive me.
> 
> I wrote the first chapter of this on a whim as part of an exercise from Neil Gaiman’s Masterclass (10/10 recommend, by the way) and then I found myself writing chapter two…I bunged it up on here without having much of a clue about where the story was going to go. And now it’s two months later and here we are.
> 
> I have honestly never felt so creatively fulfilled as I have writing this. I’ve written while on the treadmill in the gym, on a plane, while walking the dog, in my hotel room at a work conference - I feel like it’s been with me everywhere this summer :). The most unexpectedly lovely thing has been waking up to the funniest, kindest comments from you folks. I honestly can’t thank you enough for all of your sweet words (and gifs, CynSyn looking at you, you magical gif deity), they have made me laugh and cry and I know we’re all just strangers at the end of various devices but I’ve got to recognise all your usernames and avatars and it just makes me super happy, community spirit and that. Writing is so solitary sometimes, trying to yank this world out of your brain and make it sound not shit on the page, so having you all giving me a boost along the way has been wonderful.
> 
> If anyone has a fic that I haven’t already bookmarked please send me a link, I really want to read your stuff. Also, if anyone ever wants anyone to beta for them or even just bounce ideas off or talk through plot woes or anything at all just let me know and I will RALLY. You can always message me here or on Insta/Twitter if you prefer, just give me a shout if you want my username and I’ll gladly send it over.
> 
> Anyway, I could ramble. I already have. But thank you for reading, it has genuinely meant the world that you’ve taken the time to read this when there are so many incredible fics out there.
> 
> If you want to read more about these two trying to find their way back to each other I hope you enjoy part two <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

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